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The Banker’s Daughter. 


Adapted from the Celebrated Play by Bronson Howard. 


BY 

MAGDALEN BARRETT. 

/ i 



“The mate for beauty should be a man, not a money-chest.” 





NEW YORK. 

GEORGE MUNRO, PURI. I SUER, 

17 TO ~7 Vaxdkwater Strekt. 


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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year ISTO, by 
GEORGE MUNRO, 

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C. 



The Banker’s Daughter. 


THE BANKER’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER 1. 

# “still willing to be an old man's darling." 

The home of Lawrence Westbrook*^ New York banker, is 
one of the prominent houses on the avenue. Handsome with- 
out; elaborate, but elegant, within. The room where two 
girls sit talking and laughing bears evidence that nothing is 
lacking that money can buy, and good taste select, to make a 
home luxurious, comfortable, inviting. 

Two girls talking and laughing as only two bright, happy 
girls of seventeen can talk and laugh. They had just entered 
the world, as it were, fresh from their school-books. and dolls, 
and to-day are talking over the men and women of the world 
much as they chattered .over their dolls a few years back — a 
few years that seemed so many days. Two girls to whom life so 
far is one long, sunshiny holiday. Two girls who, judging 
from their talk and simultaneous bursts of laughter, are one 
in spirit and feeling. Yet there is a vast difference between 
them, a difference that would fill a volume, though it can be 
told in a single word. A heart is the difference — and the girl 
with the yellow hair and baby roses in her cheeks has it. 
You can* see it in her eyes — wonderfully dark eyes with yellow 
hair — that look blue and gray in turn. Clear, bright eyes that 
never burn, but like two deep wells of crystal water reflect the 
flight of every bird of passage. A tall, lithe girl, bright, joy- 
ous with an airiness that springs from an innocent heart; and 
in this she differs from her companion, who is gay, but not 
joyous; airy, but it is the airiness of a butterfly — verily, this 
gay little brunette with her petite form, roguish eyes, feather- 
brain, perpetual laughter, and nonsensical chatter, is a but- 
terfly. Her light little head has never been bothered with one 
serious thought of life or of death. She believes the world owes 
her happiness — else why is she, a butterfly, here? — and she is 
going to have it. Happiness to her means a series of dressing, 
gossiping, d»dving, party-going, and such like, flirtations, and 


, 6 THE BA Inker’s daughter. 

— above all— sensations. AVhen she figures as a heroine in 
some great sensation, she will have gained the height of all 
earthly bliss. Shallow, unstable, a daughter of Vanity Fair, 
with not a grain of common sense; yet, strange to say, she is 
not envious, entertains no ill will toward her neighbor — in a 
word, Florence St. Vincent is an enemy only to herself. 

“ Yes, 1 think he is handsome, Lilian,^^ Florence is saying, 
meditatively; but there is a smile on her lip, and she rolls her 
eyes in a manner that makes Lilian laugh as she says: 

“And amusing, Florence. 

“Oh, yes, amusing! George Washington Phipps is highly 
amusing/’ says Florence, with a most gomical expression of 
countenance, and instantly a peal of laughter from both the « 
girls fill the room. 

“ Florence, we ought to be. ashamed for laughing so; Mr. 
Phipps is really a nice gentleman — ” 

“And who said he wasn’t? Of course we ought to be 
ashamed of ourselves for laughing at G. W. Phipps. I think 
he is perfectly splendid — only he hasn’t time, to make love to 
me. You know he has his time all laid out; he gives himself 
just so much — ” 

“ I know all about it; I often have heard papa laughing 
over it.” 

“ Well, he allows himself just so .much time to make love, 
and just so much time is altogether too short,” says Florence, 
with an air of profound knowledge; “ for time’s up before he 
has got anywhere near proposing.” 

, ^ “ Which suits Florence St. Vincent beautifully;” and Lil- 
ian’s merry laugh rings out again. 

“ No, indeed,” says Florence, with a toss of her head. “ 1 
wish he would propose.” 

“ So that you could cast aside that odious name St Vincent 
for the more beautiful name of Phipps,” says Lilian, trying 
to look grave. 

“Mrs. Phipps!” and Florence raises her hands in horror. 

“ The namd will forever forbid the publication of the bans. 
When I marry, it shall be to an Arlington, a Lorraine—” 

“ My dear Florence,” and Lilian’s arms are around Flor- 
ence’s neck, and her fair face, with its half-smiling, half-seri- 
ous expression, is near the sparkling, dark one, “ when you 
love a man enough to marry him you will say, ‘ What’s in a 
name?’ ” 

“ Oh! Will I, indeed? Lilian Westbrook, let me tell you 
something,” and now Florence winds her arms, her eyes danc- 
ing the while, around Lilian’s neck, and lays her peachy cheek 


THR banker’s daughter. 


7 


close to the baby rose: “ I love George Washington Phipps as 
much as I will ever love any man.^^ 

“ Plorenee!^^ and the grayish-blue eyes open wide, and the 
expression of surprise and horror on the fair face is indescrib- 
able. Florence, seeing it, cries: 

“ What have I said? What have I done?’^ and her gay 
laughter fills the room for a minute. 

“ Oh, Florence, you are only joking; for a moment I thought 
you were in earnest. The idea of you or me thinking of men 
in such a light would be preposterous.^’ 

“ Such a light! Explain, please,” says Florence, demurely. 
“ Oh, you know what I mean, Florence,” and the roses in 
Lilian’s cheeks grow brighter. “ We should not think about 
men, about falling in love and marriage, for — well, for the 
next five years, at least. ” 

Florence’s laugh rings out once more. 

“ What a dear, innocent child you are, Lilian, or rather you 
pretend to be. To hear you preach just now one would scarce 
believe you had a score of admirers in your train last night,” 

“ Had I, Florence?” and liilian"^ fathomless eyes are fixed 
on Florence’s face. 

“Oh, this is too much!” and Florence laughs until the 
tears come into her black eyes; but Cilian does not join in the 
laughter this time. “ Don’t try to look serious, Lilian West- 
brook; you can’t m^ke me believe that you do not know that 
you have admirers without number.” 

“ But you will believe, Florence, that I treat them all alike, 
that I show no partiality,” says Lilian, earnestly; but, some- 
how, she can no longer keep her eyes on Florence’s face. 

“ Yes,” says Florence, all smiles; “ so far you have treated 
all alike, so far you have been a sensible girl, but you are will- 
ing to make a fool of yourself, you are vyilling to show a pref- 
erence — ’ ’ 

“ For whom?” 

“ Harold Koutledge,” and Florence laughs aloud, and Lili- 
an’s face is scarlet. 

“ Now you think I’m a witch. You couldn’t see that G. 
W. Phipps is in love with me, and 1 with him? Don’t apol- 
ogize,” as Lilian was about to speak; “ you can’t help your 
blindness; you’ll have to be ten years in society before you 
begin to know a tithe of what I do to-day. You see, my dear 
Lilian, this knowledge comes naturally to me. My mother 
died when I was very young, but 1 recollect that she was 
awfully fashionable— a leader. Now, Lilian, maybe you are 


8 


THE BAHKEK’s HAUGHTEB. 


not aware of the fact that you are in love with Harold Rout- 
ledge, and he is in love with you— 

“ Oh, Florence, what nonsense!^’ and Lilian laughs now; 
but it is a composed little laugh. “ You know Mr. Koutledge 
has never paid any particular attention to me. ’’ 

“ But he would like to; take my word for it, my dear/^ 

“ Indeed you are mistaken, Florence. 

“ Lilian, flirt desperately with some one else at the ball to- 
night, and you will see how quickly you will bring Harold Rout- 
ledge to your feet,^’ says Florence, in a mysterious half whisper. 

Lilian laughs merrily now at the look of profound wisdom 
on Florence's face. 

“ And with whom do you recommend me to flirt.^’’ she says, 
lightly. 

“ Oh, dear, you won’t have any trouble about that, there 
are so many ready for it. I would say the Count de Carojae; 
he is desperately in love with you.” 

Lilian is her airy self once more. Her silvery laugh rings 
out as she looks at Florence’s earnest face. 

“ My dear Florence, you will have all the men we know in 
love with me before 3^00 stop.” 

“ To the most stupid observer it is clear the count is in love 
with Lilian Westbrook, so we will not argue that point, please. 
But, 1 was about to say, the count is a’ dangerous man to 
trifle with. He would hate the successful suitor, pick a quar- 
rel with him, and give him his choice of swords or pistols, and 
you would be the ca,use of a duel. Oh, if it were I! What 
delight, what happiness it would give me!” 

“ Now, Florence, you are romancing. Do come back to 
common sense,” says Lilian, laughing. 

Florence St. Vincent is as earnest as ever she was in her 
life. 

“Lilian, what do you call common sense? What ‘Fifth 
Avenue belle do you know that would not give a year of her 
life to create such a sensation? To have a French nobleman 
and an American artist fight a duel about me! To be the talk 
of Jihe avenue, the town, the whole country! Oh, it is too 
blissful to contemplate!” and Florence clasps her hands and 
rolls up her eyes. 

Lilian laughs until the tears roll down her cheeks. 

“ What are you laughing at?” asks Florence, as if she had 
just come back to earth. 

“ I’m laughing, Florence, for 1 know that you do not mean 
a word that you sa}^” 

“ Lilian Westbrook, I never was more in earnest in all my 


THE BAIs^KER’S DAUGHTER. 


9 


says Florence, in a tone of disgust. “ What a taste you 
have, what strange ideas — 

“ Never mind, Florence; I shall educate my taste up to a 
sensation."’^ 

“ Don’t make fun of me, please. Now, to go back from 
whence we wandered. If you are afraid to flirt with Count de 
Carojae, I’ll think of some one else. Ah, and I have him in- 
stanterl He likes you — I know he does — and I like him — I 
think he is perfectly grand. And I must confess I’m just a 
little afraid of him. He keeps me at a distance, and yet he is 
always very pleasant to me. I tell you to flirt with him, but I 
would not dare attempt it myself.” 

There is no knowing how long Florence would go on in this 
strain, only Lilian, whose curiosity is aroused, interrupts her. 

“ Whom are you talking about, Florence?” 

Florence laughs as she begins: 

“ ‘ Handsome and tall, with command in his eye, 

The sweetest of smiles giving sternness the lie; 

His soldierly bearing keeps foemen at bay; 

His hair is dipped close in the orthodox way; 

His nose has a curve from the bridge to the tip; 

A statue might envy his short upper lip.’ 

How did I ever come to think of that verse? Happy thought, 
indeed. It is a most perfect portrait; do you recognize it, 
Lilian?” 

Lilian laughs and shakes her head. 

Florence looks provoked as she* says: 

“ You don’t know—” 

“The short upper lip a statue might envy? No; all the 
handsome men that I know have their lip nicely hid away 
under a mustache. There, don’t get angry! I’ll try to 
guess — ” 

“You’ll try to guess? How very stupid you are, Lilian! 
I am sure my verse put John Strebelow as plainly before you 
as if he were standing there in the flesh.” 

“ John Strebelow! Why, yes, if you had not mentioned a 
flirtation in connection with him, I would have recognized the 
portrait at once. Your verse is, indeed, a perfect description 
of him.” 

“ Thank you. Now, then, you must flirt with John Strebe- 
low— he isn’t dangerous for you— if you want to bring Harold 
lioiitledge to terms.” 

“ Flirt with John Strebelow!” and Lilian raises her hands 
with a movement that says she can not entertain such a thought. 


10 THE banker’s daughter. 

“ Dear, handsome John Strebelovv! he is one of the best of 
men — ” 

“ Oh, what gush!” 

“ Florence,” says Lilian, not heeding this interruption, “ I 
was his sweetheart once.” 

“ You! you John IStrebelow’s sweetheart! Why, when— 
where — where was I when you were his sweetheart?” cries 
Florence, all excitement. 

“ 1 don’t think you were very far away, Florence, ‘when 
John Strebelow used to take me on his knee, and 1 would 
nestle my head on his bosom, and — ” 

“ Lilian Westbrook!” cries Florence^ shocked. 

“ It was some years ago, Flprehce, when I was a young lady 
of ten summers, or thereabouts.” 

“ Oh, dear, that spoils it! I thought it happened lately,” 
says Florence, as Lilian laughs in her horrified face. “ Well, 
I’m sure John Strebelow has never had a sweetheart since. 
He has never fallen in love, and a silver hair is beginning to 
peep out here and there among the black ones. He is the 
handsomest man and best catch in our set to-day. I would 
say to you, set your cap for him, only he is too young.” 

“ Too young! Florence, I look upon John Slrebelow as an 
elder brother; he is fully fifteen years older than L. Ah! I 
see you are only talking nonsense. ’ ’ 

“Not a bit of it. John Strebelow is too young for you by 
thirty years; Harold Routledge, by forty years. Don’t make 
a fool of yourself, Lilian Westbrook, by marrying a young 
man. He’ll tyrannize ov-er you, he’ll be jealous of you, 
or you will be jealous of him. Nice life you’ll have of it, 
either way. Do as 1 shall do, my dear girl; marry a 
man old enough to be your grandfather; that is the man 
who has the millions. Catch me to marry a po'or artist 
like Harold Routledge! Every one knows you are a rich heir- 
ess; how do you know but he is after your money? Marry a 
man, my dear Lilian, who has one leg already in the grave; 
he’ll get the other one in in a very short time, and then you’ve 
been married; you are independent; you are. rich; you are a 
charming young widow— and, oh> what a time you can have!” 

“ 1 know you are joking, Florence, but. you make my blood 
run cold all the same,” says Lilian, with a smile and’ a little 
shiver. 

“ You know I’m only joking! Now, if that isn’t provok- 
ing. 1 tell you I am awfully in earnest. Don’t you remember 
when we played with our dolls, I always tokl you that 1 would 
like to be an old man’s darling?” 


THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER. 


11 


“ Child’s talk, Florence, and it’s the same to-day.” 

“ Nothing of the kind. I’m still willing to be an old man’s 
darling, and I have my eye on two or three retired millionaire 
men who are very young. They came into this wicked world 
as late as the beginning of the present century. ” 

“ Florence!” 

“ Don’t begin to preach; haven’t time to listen,” says Flor- 
ence, rising with a shrill little laugh. “I have stayed here so 
long that I won’t get through my list to-day,” consulting her 
visiting tablet, “ and now, my dear, you know why I can’t 
marry G. W. Phipps, though, poor fellow, I love him very 
much.” 

“ Why can’t you marry him? you haven’t told me.” 

” What a little stupid! Of course I have told you. Because 
he is too young; but I really believe if he had old Davidson’s 
or old Brown’s money, 1 would be tempted to overlook his 
youth. By-by, dear; I’ll see you at the ball to-night; and be 
sure that you take my advice.” 


CHAPTER II. 

THE banker’s daughter. 

“ Well, Florence has queerer notions every day she lives. 
I wonder if she really means what she says? What a silly 
question I 0^ course she doesn’t. ” 

Lilian says this as if it settled it to her own satisfaction, yet 
she rests her cheek on her little hand, and falls to thinking 
over what Florence has been saying. She has no idea that she 
has been sitting nearly an hour where Florence left her, un- 
til a voice says: 

“ Well, my little daughter, what means that serious face?” 

The voice belongs to the banker, Lilian’s father, who has 
entered the room without attracting his daughter’s attention. 

A man of half a century, in robust health, who seems per- 
fectly satisfied with himself and all the world. One of the 
solid men of New York — people say— one of the lucky ones 
whose every speculation is a gold mine. He has a pleasant, 
ruddy face, framed with thick, iron-gray hair, and the voice 
that says: “ My little daughter, what means that serious 
face?” is full of tenderness. 

I have had serious thoughts, father. I’ve been trying to 
be serious,” says Lilian, smiling, as she rises to meet her 
father, and catching both of his hands, looks up in his face. 

“ You have been trying to be serious! Well, judging from 


n 


THE banker's daughter. 


your face vvlien I came in, 1 think that 3mu succeeded. But 
isn't this a new departure, Lilian?" says the banker, smiling 
down at the lovely face. 

“ Father, I believe you and Aunt Fanny make such a big 
baby of me that it keeps me from being a bit wise." 

Lawrence Westbrook laughs as he says: ' 

“ Poor Lilian! so you think you are not a bit wise?" 

“ It's no laughing matter, father. Florence says 1 don't be- 
gin to know what she does; and I’ve been thinking, and I 
know 1 don't," says Lilian, her words earnest, but her eyes 
smiling. 

“ And I know you don't," says the banker, laying his hand 
on the golden head; “ and may Heaven preserve my little girl 
from Florence St. Vincent's worldly wisdom! I think Aunt 
Fanny and myself will have to continue making a big baby of 
3^011, Lilian," concludes her father, laughing. 

“ Oh, no, you won't, father!" she cries, quickly, with a 
look half serious, half smiling. “ Yesterday I was a child, 
to-day I am a woman." 

What!” cries the banker, in smiling surprise, as he scruti- 
nizes the fair face. “ Yesterday a child, and to-day a woman ?" 

Lilian laughs gayly and nods her head. 

“ Then, my dear, 1 have made a discovery." 

“ A discovery, father?" 

“ Yes-: when the girl of seventeen suddenly discovers that 
she is no longer a child, there's a man in the case; she is in 
love." 

The banker spoke in a half whisper, then burst out laugh- 
ing at the look of dismay on his daughter's face. 

“Father!" and the roses in Lilian's cheeks spread untii 
they touch the roots of her golden hair. 

“ Ah, that's a tell-tale blush, Lilian. Take my advice, lit- 
tle one;" and- the banker takes the rosy face between his 
palms: “ Do not give an extra thought to any one particular 
man for the next three or four 3'ears." 

“ For the next five years, father; and you are wrong, alto- 
gether wrong, in that discovery of yours," says Lilian, ear- 
nestly. 

“ Am 1 ?" and the banker laughs. - 

“ Oh, I know by that laugh that you don't believe that 
you are; but you are wrong, father." 

“ Of course I am, as time shall tell;" and the banker laughs 
again. . 

“ Father, you are bent on teasing me to-day. 1 won't talk 


THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER. 13 

to you any more;’"’ a'nd Lilian turns away, with a laugh that 
denotes anything but anger. 

“ A letter for you, Miss Westbrook, says a servant. 

“ The seal of Oouht de Carojae,^’ says Lilian, as she holds 
the letter in her hand. 

“ AVhat has the Count de Carojae to say to my daughter?^^ 
asks Lawrence Westbrook. 

“ Pll tell you in one moment, father,’^ and Lilian breaks the 
seal and reads the contents. “ An invitation for a drive to- 
morrow!” cries Lilian, with a gratified smile. 

“ Lucky girl,” says the banker, good-humoredly. “ I think 
I am safe in saying that there are a hundred young ladies, if 
there is one, in the upper part of this city, to-day, looking for 
that invitation. Now, own up, Lilian: douT you feel just a 
little pleased at being the chosen one?” 

” Well, yes, father, I do,” says Lilian, her eyes dancing. 
“ I feel honored, delighted; -for Florence says that there are 
young ladies fairly dying for a smile from this French noble- 
man. 

“ Poor things!” and Lawrence Westbrook laughs heartily. 

Lilian joins in his laughter as she says: 

“Of course it is very silly, father; but girls are girls, you 
know, and one doesnT see a real count every day.” 

“ Very true, my dear. How you will be envied to-mor- 
row — ” 

“No, father,” says Lilian, slowly. “ I doiFt think that I 
shall accept — ” 

“ Lilian, I thought you were delighted?” says her father, 
elevating his brows. 

“lam delighted. 1 could waltz around the room because 
I am the chosen one, but — ” 

Lilian hesitates, and a smile plays about her lips. 

“ But what?” says the banker, who regards her curiously. 

“ Oh, 1 don’t know,” with a little nervous laugh. “ Now 
that I have his invitation, I do not care anything about it.” 

“ Now that you have, you don’t care! Ah, Lilian, you are 
a spoiled, pampered child. Nothing but what is beyond your 
reach delights you. You must get over that, .my dear — ” 

“ You dear, kind father, stop lecturing. I don’t like 
Count de Carojae, and I will not drive with him to-morrow. 
Ah, some one is coming!” and Lilian darts over to the win- 
dow, and pretends to be impatiently w^atching the street. 

The door opens, and Mrs. Holcombe, the banker’s widowed 
sister, enters. Mrs. Holcombe is a refined, motherly woman, 
who has been at the head of the banker’s household, and a 


14 THE banker’s daughter. 

mother to his daughter, since the death of his wife, eight years 
ago. 

Fanny,” says the banker, “ our little, girl has received an 
invitation to drive to-morrow with no less a personage than a 
real live count!” and the father smiles meaningly at his sister 
as he nods his head toward the window. 

“ The Count de Oarojae, I suppose,” says Mrs. Holcombe. 

Lilian starts with a little cry of surprise as her aunt speaks, 
but it is not her aunt’s voice that startles her. She saw a lady 
and gentleman driving by behind a stylish team. The lady 
was Helen Geurney, an acquaintance; the gentleman was Har- 
old Routledge; and looking up at the window, he saw her, and 
with an indifferent look, raised his hat. They dash by as Lil- 
ian gives that little cry, and she hears her father saying to her 
aunt : 

“ Yes, the Count de Carojae; but she is going to decline the 
honor. What do you think of that?” 

“Oh, no, I’m not, father; I’m going to accept the count’s 
invitation, with your permission,” says Lilian, turning quickly 
around; and seeing her aunt, she gives a hysterical little laugh, 
and rushes over and flings her arms about that lady’s neck. 

“ Oh, Aunt Fanny, won’t it be glorious to drive out with 
the count to-morrow and — and spite somebody?” 

“ Lilian!” says Aunt Fanny, reproachfully, and she tries to 
look in her niece’s face. “ Who is somebody?” 

Lilian throws up her head and laughs airily. 

“ I mean to spite everybody, aunt. Have I said anything 
so very terrible? if I have. I’ll run away and look over my ball 
toilet, and give you and father a chance to talk it over;” and 
with another laugh, Lilian trips out of the room. 

Mrs. Holcombe sighs and shakes her head at the banker. 

“ You have given her too much of her own way, Lawrence. ” 

“ Nonsense,” says the banker, with a smile. “ She’s a wild 
young thing, but her heart is all riglit. Lilian is the sort of 
girl that makes a very good woman. ” 

Lilian does not look over her ball attire at once. In her own 
room she sits with her hand under her chin. 

Harold Routladge and Helen Geurney out driving, she 
thinks; and how coolly Harold, bowed to her. Well, what 
need she care whether he was pleased or displeased at the sight 
of her? Was he angry because she teased him last night, by 
always being engaged to some one else when he asked her to 
dance? Of course not. How could he know that she tried to 
.tease him, or what does he care? But Florence said that Harold 
loves her! Ah, Florence is wrong — of course she is wrong! 


THE banker's daughter. 


15 


and it’s just as well. What does she, that isn't going to think 
of any particular man for the next five years, care for Harold 
Routledge, and who wants him to care for her? 

“ I think anything of .Harold Routledge!” and she springs 
up, giving her skirts a shake that places them in their proper 
fold, and her head a disdainful little nod. 

“ ‘ Free as the blossom that hangs on a bough — 

1 never have given a tlmuglit to a man, 

And why in the world should I give one now?’ ” 


CHAPTER III. 

AT THE BALL. 

It is the season in New York when those who wish to be 
thought fashionable must attend a ball, party, theater, opera, 
or something of the sort, every night. The season 

“ When cards, invitations, and three-cornered notes 
FI}’- about like white butterflies — gay little motes 
In the sunbeam of fashion.” 

To-night the ball is at Blaisdale's — the ball Florence men- 
tioned to Lilian to-day. A carpet is laid from the aristocratic 
doorsteps down to the curbstone, where carriage after carriage 
rolls up and deposits its load of richly attired men and wom- 
en. A goodly share of the wealth of New York is represented 
here to-night, for Blaisdale's door 

“ Is barred with gold, and opens but to golden keys.” 

The Blaisd ale saloon and rooms adjoining are all light, and 
not a shadow to be seen lingering anywhere. The air is heavy 
with the odor of the floral decorations, and there is music and 
dancing, and talking and laughter, all at once; for elderly 
folks must talk, and young folks must dance, else where is the 
enjoyment? A number of celebrities is here to-night, but the 
number is lost sight of for one. Every eye is turned — when 
we say every eye we mean curious eyes, envious eyes, eyes of 
marriageable daughters and the all-seeing eyes of their mam- 
mas — toward a spot in the bright saloon where two men are 
standing in conversation. Which is the observed? One is very 
tall, carrying his handsome massive head above every man in 
the room, and his well-knit frame is splendidly proportioned. 
The other is below the medium height, thin and wiry. The 
face of the tall man is a passport to any Iionest man's cojifi- 
deiice. A fair face glowing with health, and lighted with a 


16 


THE BANKEK^S DAUGHTEll. 


pair of dark eyes that beam with tenderness, a face whose per- 
fect features bear the imprint of candor, frankness, and gen- 
erosity. The face of the other is sharp, sallow, with eyes 
small, black, and vindictive. There is a charm about the 
easy, elegant bearing of the tall man; the other talks with his 
shoulders, his hands, his eyebrows. The tall man—but why 
say another word in his praise? He has a magnificent phys- 
ique, a handsome, honest face, a graceful bearing, but he is 
only plain John Strebelow, American gentleman, and pales 
into uttter insignificance by the side of the man whose head 
does not reach the tips of his broad shoulders — Count de Caro- 
jae, French nobleman, the observed of all observers. 

How stupid of the count, when a hundred hearts in that 
room are beating for him, only to stand there talking to John 
Strebelow! DoesnT he intend to talk to anybody else to-night? 
Why does he not ask some one to dance? Who is he waiting 
for? Ah! he loses all interest in his conversation at last, and 
he turns to leave John Strebelow as a buzz runs through the 
room over some new arrival. 

The arrival is the banker^s daughter, and instantly a hun- 
dred hearts beat jealously, for the count has lost no time in 
making his way to her side. John Strebelow^s eyes have fol- 
lowed him; for a moment they linger on Lilian; then he turns 
away, and is soon engaged in conversation elsewhere. 

“ Good-evening, Mees Westbrook. 

“ Good-evening, Count de Oarojae,^^ says Lilian, gayly. 

“ I have not danced to-night. I was waiting for you. I 
thought you would never come. '^ 

As the count spoke Lilian happened to raise her eyes, and 
standing a' few feet from her is Harold Routledge with a group 
of young men. Harold Routledge is of medium height, has 
a pale, handsome face, and beautiful dark-gray eyes, which 
are fixed on Lilianas face now with a look of sad entreaty. 
There is a look of defiance in her eyes as they meet his for a 
moment, and she gives the count a bright smile as she says: 

“ You were waiting for me, count?^^ 

“ Yes, Mees Westbrook. 

“ AVhat dance do you want?’^ says Lilian, holding up her 
card for him to write his name. 

“ I shall take the next dance, and as many more as Mees 
Westbrook will give me.^’ 

“ Put your name to the next only, count, for 1 don't know 
how long I am going to remain. The invitation 1 received 
from you to-day, count, I — 


THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER. 17 

“ Mees Westbrook, don’t say that you will deny me the ex- 
treme delight — ” 

“ Count de Carojae, I accept with pleasure. Ah, here comes 
my friend. Miss Vincent! If you will excuse me, count, I wish 
to speak to her.” 

“ Certainly, Mees Westbrook;”* but the count gritted his 
teeth at this interruption of what he thought would be a pleas- 
ant Ute-a-Ute until the next dance was in order. 

“ Lilian, what made you so late? And what have you said 
to the count to make him look daggers at me? Oh, if you had 
only been here sooner! I’ve made wonderful progress with 
old Brown; have succeeded in making him believe that he 
interests me; but I’ve succeeded in making all the family think 
so as well as the old man, for they’ve surrounded him; the chil- 
dren and the grandchildren and the great-grandchildren are 
at^ their post. They have formed a wall around him to keep 
the enemy off; but in spite of the body-guard, that nice little 
portion — a wife’s share — will fall to Florence St. Vincent. 
Look! G. Washington Phipps fairly knocking the people over 
to reach us! Oh, what a time I’ll have getting rid of him! 
I won’t wait to speak to him. I’ll run away and hide.' I’ll 
see you later, Lilian.” 

Florence’s smiling face was aglow with excitement. She 
scarce drew breath between her sentences, giving Lilian no 
chance to reply; and she trips away now, leaving Lilian to look 
about for her Mr. Phipps, who is at her side in a few moments. 

(x. Washington Phipps is a young man with a handsome 
face of smiling good nature. A New York business man, and 
representative of a class who are eternally on the go, Mr. 
Phipps appears before you only to disappear. He is not dis- 
tinguished for his ease and elegance. He believes that noth- 
ing can be accomplished without fuss, noise, bustle, on the 
plea, perhaps, that it looks like business. 

‘‘How d’ye do. Miss Westbrook? Where’s Florence? 
Wasn’t she here talking to you a moment ago?” 

“ Yes, she was, Mr. Phipps, but she left me to — ” 

“Never mind; can’t follow her now. Miss Westbrook; 
time’s up. Promised to meet a friend at Delmonico’s at— 
let me see!” (hurriedly takes out his note-book and consults it) 
— “ at half past eleven. Must be near that now ” (pulls out 
his watch). “ Within ten minutes of it; but I’ll be there in 
time. Good-night, Miss Westbrook;” and G. Washington 
Phipps hurries off to keep his fifth engagement this evening-— 
and how many more he has io keep we might be able to tell 
had we a peep at his note-book. 


18 


THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER. 

Lilian smiles as she thinks G. Washington Phipps never will 
have any time to make love to Florence. 

“ Lilian!^" 

The color spreads in Lilianas cheek in spite of her, as she 
turns slowly, and says, coolly: 

“ Mr. Poutledge."’ " • 

“ Mr, Ptoutledge!’^ and Harold Eoutledge's gray eyes are 
fixed reproachfully upon her. “ Lilian, why do you treat me 
so coldly?"^ 

“ I believe I have been as friendly to Mr. Boutledge as he 
has been to me for the past twenty-four hours,^^ says Lilian, 
with the faintest little quiver in her voice. 

Lilian spoke the truth, and Harold Koutledge knew it. 
They are very much alike, this young* man and woman; two 
petted, spoiled children. Harold Routledge has neither the 
head nor heart to guide such a weary, careless creature as Lilian 
Westbrook. She is penitent now; he thinks, perhaps, he has 
been in the wrong, but he is not the man to make such a con- 
fession. 

“ The past twenty-four hours are passed forever. Lilian, 
what is the use of talking about them. Can 1 have the next 
dance?^^ 

Lilian shakes her head, and there is just a little gleam of 
triumph in her eye as she says; 

“ 1 have given it to Count de Carojae.^^ 

Harold Eoutledge is nettled at once. 

“ Oh, I might have known as much! As the dance is about 
to begin, I will leave you. Miss Westbrook—’’ 

“ Miss Westbrook!” and Jjilian laughs gayly. Florence 
was right. It is very evident to her just now that Harold 
Eoutledge loves her, and she thinks she has punished him 
quite enough for one twenty-four hours. “ Harold, won’t you 
put your name down for the next dance?” 

“ No; you promised me the next dance three times last 
night, and you did not dance with me once. Do you wish me 
to think, Lilian, that you make promises only for the pleasure 
of breaking them?” says Harold, with apparent feeling. 

“ Well, I plead guilty and ask forgiveness, promising never 
to be naughty any more,” says Lilian, laughing up in Harold’s 
face. “ Come, now, shall I put your name down? I’m going 
home early, Harold; this is your last chance.” 

Her voice sounds half in fun, half in earnest. Harold looks 
down at her laughing face. It cuts him to give in, but those 
.eyes and the earnest half of the voice is too much for him. 


THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER. 19 

“ Fll trust you once more/’ he says, iu not a very gracious 
tone. 

“ And I’ll put down your name, so that I shall not forget,” 
says Lilian, naively. 

“ Mees Westbrook, this is our dance,” and the count glares 
at Mr. Routledge; and with a supercilious stare, Mr. Eout- 
ledge turns away, but he never loses sight of Lilian as she 
whirls through the dance with the count’s arm around her. 

Another pair of eyes follow Lilian through the dance, hand- 
some brown eyes, whose owner stands with his broad shoulders 
leaning against the casement of the door. 

“ ‘ Airy, fairy Lillian. 

Flitting, fairy Lilian.’ 

She is like none of them here to-night. I don’t wonder that 
the count is infatuated. It does not seem possible that she 
will ever be like the rest of these bare-shouldered beauties here 
to-night — women who are ready to sell themselves at the 
altar to the man that can give them the grandest establish- 
ment. She must have been before Tennyson when he wrote 
‘ Airy, Fairy Lilian.’ 

“ ‘ So innocent — arch, so cunning — simple, 

From beneath her gathered wimple 
Gleaming with black-beaded eyes. 

Till the lightning laughters dimple 
The baby roses in her cheeks; 

Then away she flies.’ ” 

The dance is over, and he loses sight of Lilian. He thinks 
he has supported the casement long enough, and is about to 
move away, when there is a light touch on his arm, and turn- 
ing suddenly around, the healthful glow of his cheeks grows 
brighter, for 

“ Airy, fairy Lilian, 

Flitting, faiiy Lilian ” 

stands smiling and dimpling before him. 

“Why are you not dancing, Mr. Strebelow? Don’t you 
know it is very unfeeling of you men to stand blocking the 
door-way and staircase when Mrs. Blaisdale is at her wits’ 
end for partners?” 

“ Have you left his highness’ the count to give me a piece 
of your mind, Lilian? I’m sure it’s very generous of you to 
spare a minute to a poor Eepublican, pure and simple; what 
other young lady in the room would do it?” says John Strebe- 
low, with a charming honliornie, 

“ So you’ve caught it too? Oh, Mr. Strebelow, I thought 
you^were above it. Talk about women being envious! every 


20 


THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER. 


one of the men here to-night are harping on the count and 
Lilian shook her head saucily at John Strebelow. 

“ I confess Pm awfully jealous of him/^ says Mr. Strebe- 
low, making a wry face. “ Oh, to be a nobleman of the 
nm regime 

“ What would you do if you were?” says Lilian, merrily. 

“ What would I do? — sail for America, of course, and land 
on Manhattan Island, where one hundred thousand young 
ladies would be waiting for me with their autograph albums.” 

“ Oh, nonsense!” says Lilian, laughing., 

“Shall I continue?” smiles Mr. Strebelow. 

Lilian nods her head. 

“ r would fall in love with the princess of the island, who, 
of course, would fall in love with me in return; for how could 
she resist a real, live nobleman?” 

“ But who is the princess of^the island?” 

John Strebelow looks earnestly down at the smiling face as 
he pauses for a moment, then answers, lightly: 

“ Oh, she was my sweetheart once — I think your friend 
Florence is trying to attract your attention. She is yonder 
with Mr. Brown.” 

Lilian follows the direction of John Strebelow’s eyes, and 
sees Florence sitting on a sofa with the retired millionaire. 
Florence shakes her fan at her and laughs, and Lilian under- 
stands her. Florence thinks she is following her advice, and 
flirting with John Strebelow, and instantly the smile fades 
from Lilianas face. 

“ Mr. Brown seems to have fascinated Miss Vincent,” says 
John Strebelow, and for the first time in all the years she has 
known John' Strebelow Lilian detects a sneer on his face. 

She looks over at Florence and the decrepit old man who 
has lived the time allotted to man, and her face turns scarlet. 
She is blushing for Florence, and she knows not what reply to 
make to her companion. The truth is dawning upon her 
that Florence was in earnest when she talked to her about 
marrying an old man, and her heart begins to beat painfully. 

John Strebelow shakes his head as he says: 

“ Oh, woman of to-day, gold, gold is all you think of!” 

“Yes, Mr. Strebelow: 


“ ‘ Tlie plague of gold strikes far and near — 

And deep and strong it enters; 

Our thoughts grow blank, our words grow strange, 
We cheer the pale gold diggers — 

Each soul is worth so much on ’Change, 

And marked like sheep with figures. ’ 


THE BAHKEIl^S DAUGHTER. 21 

God bless my father! he says his daughter need not think of 
dollars and cents when she is about to choose a husband. 

John Strebelovv looks down at Lilian as if he is studying her 
face. There is a silence of a few moments, then he says: 

“ It seems but a month ago, Lilian, that 1 danced you on 
my knee, and to-night you are talking about choosing a hus- 
band. ’ ' 

“ Oh, no!^^ and Lilian blushed and laughed. “ I said when 
I was about to choose a husband, which wonT be for the next 
five years, I assure you, Mr. Strebelow. Ah, there goes my 
signal!’^ as the music crashed through the room. “ I have 
promised this dance to Mr. Routledge— there he is inquiring 
of Aunt Fanny for me. By-by, Mr. Strebelow; weVe had a 
very pleasant little chat. 

“ For which I must thank you, Lilian.” 

Lilian leaves him to join her aunt and Harold, and, look- 
ing after her, John Strebelow murmurs: 

“ Not choose a husband for five years to come? Ah, long 
before that time the prize will be won and worn.^' 

“ Here 1 am, Mr. Faultfinder; never say again that I am 
not to be trusted,” says Lilian, as she stands before Harold. 

“ I never shall until you have given me reason,” says Har- 
old, smiling. 

They waltz once around the room, when Harold says: 

“ Lilian, come into the conservatory; I have something to 
say to you, and we will not be disturbed there while this dance 
is in progress. ” 

Lilian gives Harold a startled glance, and allows him to 
lead her into the conservatory. He takes her to the window 
that is furthest from the ball-room, and when he seats her he 
says: 

“ Lilian, I can no longer put off, though I have tried to 
wait until to-morrow, what I to say to you. Lilian, 

donT you know that your conduct -is killing me?” 

“ My conduct is killing you, Harold?” 

Lilian tries to look up at him with wide-open, innocent eyes, 
but the mischievous spirit that she can not put down is danc- 
ing in them. 

“ Yes, Lilian, I can no longer bear it in silence. You must 
have known for a long time that I have loved you, Lilian, 
though I have not before to-night put it to you in so many 
words. Your conduct has been such that it encouraged me, in 
a thousand and one little ways, Lilian — you made me believe 
that you loved me. I can not think that you are a heartless 


22 THE banker's daughter. 

ilirt. Oh, Lilian, tell me that I am right in thinking that you 
love me!" 

Lilian's face is scarlet; her chin has dropped upon her 
bosom, and she shakes her head as Harold pauses. 

“ Lilian!" he cries, in a choking voice, “ am I to believe 
that you have been deceiving me?" 

“ I have not meant to deceive you, Harold," she says, in a 
tremulous voice, without raising her eyes. 

“ Lilian Westbrook, if I am nothing to you, give me your 
hand and I'll say good-bye forever." 

“Oh, Harold!" she cries, in a frightened voice, as she 
raises' her eyes to his face. 

“ Lilian, I love you with all my heart, and from to-night 1 
must be everything or nothing to you." 

“ Harold, you shall be everything to me; I love you." 

Her hands clasp his, and the words are said before the im- 
petuous girl knows it. 

“ Heaven bless my darling!" and as they are alone in the 
conservatory, he catches the blushing girl in his arms. 

“ Lilian, 1 have a request to make of you before we are in- 
terrupted. I detest the Count de Oarojae. Promise me that 
you will not dance with him again." 

“ I can promise you that easily, for papa said that we 
should not stay later than half past twelve, and it is that now; 
but I am going driving with the count to-morrow. Now, you 
mustn't be angry, Harold; for the engagement is already 
made, and I must keep it." 

“Can you not find a pretense for breaking it, Lilian?" 
says Harold, his brow clouded. 

“ 1 will go just this once, Harold." 

“ And you will accept no more invitations from the count?" 

“No more," answers Lilian, smiling. “ Oh, dear! here 
I've made you my master, and I wasn't going to think of any 
one man in particular for the next five years — " 

“ Lilian, Lilian, are you here?" and Florence St. Vincent 
waltzes into the conservatory. 

“ Yes, I'm here, Florence;" and Lilian steps quickly out 
of the window. 

“ And so is Mr. Eoutledge," says Florence, laughing. 
“My dear, your father and aunt are thinking of going 
home." 

“ Oh, then I must get ready to go at once. Good-night, 
Mr. Routledge." 

“ I will see you to your carriage," whispers Harold. 


THE BANKEK'S DAUC4HTER. 


2S 


“ Did you not see for yourself what progress I have made 
with old Brown?’^ 

“ Oh, Florence! Florence! I hope you are not in earnest. 
You have attracted a great deal of attention to yourself to- 
night.;^ 

“ Lilian Westbrook, how many times am I going to tell you 
that I am in earnest?’^ 

“ Then, Florence, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, 
says Lilian, with angry reproach. 

Florence's laugh ran through the conservatory. 

“ Lilian, my father was made a poor man, comparatively, 
in Wall Street last week. If the same thing happened yours, 
you would be shining up to an old Brown to-night, instead of 
being here among the roses with a poor artist.^-' 

“ I would beg in the streets before I would marry such a 
man as old Brown !^’ cries Lilian, indignantly, as she walks 
out of the conservatory. 

“ Gone off on a high horse,^^ laughs Florence, turning to 
Harold, who has remained behind. 

“Ah, Mees Westbrook, 1 have been looking for you — are 
you engaged for the next dance?’^ says the count, meeting 
Lilian near the conservatory door. 

“ I am going home at once, count; my father is waiting for 
me."" 

“ Oh, 1 am very sorry for that. Can I have 'the pleasure 
of escorting Mees Westbrook to her carriage?"" 

“No, sir; Miss Westbrook has given me that permission,"" 
says Harold Routledge, who has steppM to Lilian "s side, in a 
voice of haughty triumph. 

The count bows stiffly, and his eyes are like little balls of 
fire. 

“ Good-night, Count de Carojae,"" says Lilian, softly, for 
she dreads a scene. 

“ I hate that man, Mees Westbrook,’" hisses the count as 
Harold walks in advance of Lilian toward the door. 

“ Are you going home so early, Strebelow?"" says Harold, 
as he sees John Strebelow coming down the stairs with Lili- 
an’s father. 

“ Yes; I’ve been up late every night this week. I must go.” 

The gentlemen stand at the foot of the stairs until Lilian 
and her aunt join them. 

“ Good-nigjit, Lilian,” says John Strebelow, as lie takes 
Lilian’s hand when they reach the pavement; “and remem- 
ber what you told me you were not going to do for the next 


24 : THE banker’s daughter. 

live years/’ lie concludes, in a laughing voice that she only 
can hear. 

It is an uneasy little laugh that Lilian gives as she holds 
John Strebelow’s hand for a moment. Will she tell him that 
she has decided her fate since slie has said those words to him? 
What years of sorrow and trouble would be spared her if she 
had told him! But John Strebelow does not know what is pass- 
ing in her mind, and as he holds her hand he assists her into 
the carriage, where her aunt is already, and says good-night 
once more. 

“ Where is Harold?” asks Lilian, as John Strebelow turns 
away. 

“ He was waiting to hand you to your carriage, but you 
were so taken up with Mr. Strebelow, that he said he would 
leave you to him, and he has gone back to the house angry. 
Oh, Lilian, Lilian, you won’t stop trifling with Harold liout- 
ledge until you have done something that you never can un- 
do.” 

The warm blood rushes to Lilian’s face, and tears to her 
eyes. For a moment or two she can hardly believe what her 
aunt has told her. Harold has gone back to the house angry, 
and for what? Since she left Harold in the conservatory she 
was as innocent of any intention to trifle with his love as a 
babe whose life could be counted but by so many hours. 

“ Aunt, if I can not speak to such an old friend as John 
Strebelow — ” 

“ My dear, Harold was not angry because you simply ^oke 
to John Strebelow, but you held his hand and looked up in 
his face, while you knew Harold was standing here at the car- 
riage door waiting for you, and no man that loves a woman 
likes to see such an exhibition as that.” 

“ Aunt, John Strebelow cares nothing for me, nor 1 for 
him; and while I was talking to him there bn the pavement, 
not a thought of Harold Koutledge crossed my mind,” says 
Lilian, with truthful indignation. 

“ But you knew that Harold was here waiting for you. It 
only goes to show, my dear, Jiow very careless — how thought- 
less you are.” 

“ Of course, aunt, I am thoughtless and everything else 
that’s bad, and you never can see that Harold Koutledge is in 
any way to blame. Well, this ends it. If I can not speak to 
an old friend but he must get angry, let him go. I shall 
jiiever call him back.” 

Aunt Fanny sighs. 

“ Ah, my dear Lilian, I was just as thoughtless a girl one 


THE P.ANKER^S DAUGHTER. 25 

time as you are to-night, and I said, ‘ Let him go,^ and to the 
day of my death I will regret it.^^ 

“ Regret what?^’ says the banker, who has been talking to 
a friend on Mrs. Blaisdale’s steps, and enters the carriage on 
Aunt Fanny’s words. 

“Oh, just a bit of advice ! have been giving Lilian,” says 
Mrs. Holcombe, lightly. 

And Lilian shrinks back in the corner of the carriage and 
is driven home, little dreaming that this is one of the nights 
that will forever stand out in her life. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE PROPOSAL AND THREAT. 

The November sun is shining brightly. What a beautiful 
day it is! Lilian thinks, as she looks out of the window when 
she has risen next morning. 

“ I’m not going to be sad; I shall not worry to-day, and let 
aunt or any one else see-that I care. I’m going to eat, drink, 
and be merry — indeed, why should I be sad? Harold will 
come around all right — if he doesn’t come to-day, he’ll come 
to-morrow; and in the meantime. I’ll be happy. He shall 
not come and find me lamenting, like Mariana in the Moated 
Grange: 

“ ‘ “ — my life is dreary, 

He cometli not,” she said. 

• She said : “lam aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead!’ ” 

If he never came again, would I wish I were dead? Bah I 
what an idea! as if Harold could stay away.” 

“ How is my darling this morning?” says Aunt Fanny, 
coming into the room._ 

“ Well, thank you. Aunt Fanny, and in the very best of 
spirits. Who could be otherwise such a glorious morning as 
this?” 

She dances up to her aunt, kisses her, but somehow she can 
not look in that lady’s grave face. 

“ Come,” with a shrill little laugh; “ I was just going 
down-stairs. I want my breakfast. 1 have a splendid appe- 
tite this morning. Aunt Fanny. Now isn’t that one of the 
surest signs that there is nothing the matter with your dar- 
ling?” 

S^he does not wait for Aunt Fanny’s reply, but trips out of 
the room and down the stairs. Mrs. Holcombe follows her 
niece slowly. 


m 


THE banker's daughter. 


“ She 'is tiding to make me believe that she doesn't care, 
but I know better," is Mrs. Holcombe's mental comment. 

The roses in Lilian's cheeks were never redder, nor the light 
in her eye brighter than it is to-day. Her aunt watches her 
uneasily as she goes about the house singing, laughing, and 
talking incessantly. She looks perfectly bewitching when she 
is dressed for her drive with the count. That gentleman goes 
into raptures over her. He makes no concealment to-day of 
his love for her. Lilian laughs in his face over his pretty 
speeches, but before they reach the upper end of the park she 
becomes painfully aware that the count is awfully in earnest, 
and she has to parry words with him skillfully to ward off a 
jDroposal. 

“ How quickly time flies! it does not seem that we have 
been out an hour, Mees "Westbrook," says the Frenchman, as 
he brings his horses to a standstill before the banker's door. 

“ Because we have had such a glorious time. 1 am much 
obliged for the pleasure, count," says Lilian, as he assists her 
to alight. 

“ And 1 can call for you again to-morrow? Come, now, 
Mees Westbrook, don't be cruel. Grant me this little re- 
quest," says the nobleman, pleadingly.-- 

Lilian hesitates. She has promised Harold that she would 
accept no more invitations from the count; but Harold is 
angry with her — has left her without an escort. She will ac- 
cept the count's invitation this time, just to punish I^arold for 
such conduct. 

“ Count, we shall go out to-morrow, if you say, on horse- 
back instead of driving. Really, 1 am tired of driving, this 
week." 

Lilian proposes horseback so that she can canter away from 
the count if he attempts to propose. 

“ Driving, on horseback, or afoot, so that I have the pleas- 
ure of Mees Westbrook's company." 

“ Then to-morrow, while the sun is shining brightly, say at 
one, the horses will be at the door. Good-day, Count de 
Carojae." 

“ Oh, I have had such a beautiful drive to-day, aunt," 
says Lilian, when her aunt came in from a walk, about an 
hour after, “ and I am going for a canter with him on horse- 
back to-morrow. Am 1 not a lucky girl, aunt, to have a noble- 
man paying me such exclusive attention?" and Lilian laughs 
merrily. 

Mrs. Holcombe shakes her head. 

“ Lilian, don't go with the count to-morrow." 


THE banker's daughter. 


^37 


“Why hot, aunt?" asks Lilian, innocently. 

“Harold will come back none the sooner that you accept 
the count as an escort." 

“ He'll come back all the sooner, aunt, when he sees that I 
don't care." 

Mrs. Holcombe sighs and says nothing more; but as the 
evening passes, and Harold Routledge does not come, she 
notices that Lilian grow^ feverish with excitement, and her 
laugh grates upon the ear. 

He will surely come to-day," Lilian says to herself, next 
morning. 

She does not meet her aunt with such a flow of spirits as 
she did yesterday, and as she wanders around the house her 
laugh and song seem forced. 

“ I hope he will come when I am out with the count," says 
Lilian, as she fastens her riding-habit. And Lilian gets her 
wish. She is gone scarce ten minutes when Harold Rout- 
ledge is in the hall- way asking for her. 

“ Miss Westbrook has gone off on horseback, but a few 
minutes ago, with the Count de Carojae," says the maid, 
Lisette. 

“ With the Count de Carojae!" says Harold, in surprise; 
and a fierce, jealous pang seizes his heart. 

“ Yes, sir." 

In his surprise, pain, and anger, Harold did not think that 
he allowed comment to fall from his lips. 

“ Very well," he says, turning quickly away, his dark-pale 
face turning a dusky red. 

“ Mrs. Holcombe is at home," says Lisette. 

“ 1 wished to see Miss Westbrook;" and Harold walked out 
the hall door. “ Yes, 1 wished to see her to humble myself 
to her again — fool, fool that I am!" he mutters, as he hurries 
away from the hauler's house. 

An hour after, the banker is sitting yawning over his paper 
before the grate-fire in the siting-room. 

“ Another big failure in London! What matter?" with a 
yawn; “it can't touch us here. How chilly it is!" laying 
down his p>aper with a shiver. “ I believe I can no longer 
stand late hours — there's a draught somewhere here, I'm 
sure. Jerrold!" calls the banker, loudly. 

“ Yes, sir," answers the servant, briskly entering the room. 

“ Put the screen around me; there is such a draught here." 

Jerrold brings forward an elegant screen and places it 
around his master, completely hiding him from any one who 
may enter the room. 


28 


THE banker’s daughter. 


“ That’s better; yon may go;” and the banker has scarcely 
settled himself for a nap in his easy-qhair, when he is startled 
by his daughter’s laughter, broken by the Count de Carojae 
talking in a voice of entreaty. 

” What a glorious run we made past Mount St. Vincent,” ^ 
says Lilian, running into the room. ” Did we not, count?” 
laughing gayly. 

” Mees Westbrook, you must stop laughing at me,” sa 3 ^s 
the count, gesticulating wildly. 

” It is an utter impossibility, count. 1 must laugh* when you 
talk such nonsense,” and Lilian laughs louder and longer than 
before. 

” You have played with my heart, Mees Westbrook.” 

“How ’naughty of j^ou, count, to say such unpleasant 
things,” and Lilian laughs in his face again. “ I thought 
the Count de Carojae had left his heart in his beautiful 
Paris. ” 

“ My heart is at your feet, Mees Westbrook, and I offer 
you my title, that any lady might be proud to accept,” says 
the count, imploringly. 

“ Count de Carojae,” says Lilian, seriously, “ 1 did not ex- 
pect this. I have known you but such a short time. I do 
not love you, count; what’s more, 1 never can, and I can not 
be your wife. I am sorry — ” 

“You are not sorry!” cries the count, enraged. “ You 
never can love me. You can not be my wife because you love 
Harold Koutledge, and I hate him!” cries the’ count, between 
his clinched teeth. 

“ You must not speak of Mr. Routledge to me, count; he 
has nothing to do with this,” says Lilian, haughtily. 

“ I can see it all, Mees Westbrook. You have treated me 
shabbily, and I never forget, never forgive. I am the best 
swordsman of Europe, and I can handle a pistol with as dead- 
ly an aim as any man. If I were only in Paris — ” 

“ You would send me a challenge,” and Lilian laughs sneer- 
ingly now. 

“ No, Mees Westbrook, I would not send you a challenge; 
but Harold Eoutledge may come to Paris some day, and if he 
does, I shall settle with him.” 

Lilian laughs gayly in his face now. 

“ What? punish Mr. Routledge for me?” 

“ Yes, punish Harold Routledge because he has come be- 
tween us. If ever he comes to Paris I will kill him; remem- 
ber what I have said. Good-bye, Mees Westbrook. I will 
leave this barbarous country to-morrow.” 


THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER. 


39 


“ Bon voyage^ Count de Carojae;’^ and Lilian laughs again. 

“ Why, Lilian, what ails the count? he rushed past me like 
a madman,^ ^ says Mrs. Holcombe, running into the room. 

“He is on his way to leave this barbarous country, says 
Lilian, laughing. 

“ What do you mean, Lilian?^' 

“ I mean that he has proposed, been rejected, and we never 
shall see him more. Oh, aunt, isn^t it fun?^^ and Lilian, 
with a hysterical little laugh, throws her arms about her 
aunt^s neck and buries her face on her shoulder. 

“ And you are happy over this work, Lilian?’’ 

“Just as happy as the day is long;” and Lilian laughs 
again; but it sounds like a laugh that is very near tears. 

“ Lilian, Harold Eoutledge has been here,” says her aunt, 
softly. 

“ Oh, aunt, I am so glad! What did he say?” sa 3 ^s Lilian, 
breathlessly. 

“ I did not see him. Lisette told him that you had gone 
out with the count, and 1 questioned her, and learned that he 
seemed awfully displeased.” 

“ Oh, he will be back again this evening. Don’t let that 
bother you, aunt. 

“ ‘ Whatever might happen, I muni ho, his; 

What signifies talking, since so it is ?' 

I must run away and take my habit off;” and she runs away 
before her aunt can reply. 

“ Well, the girl has chased every wink of sleep out of . my 
eyes,” says the banker to himself, in his hiding-place behind 
the screen. “ What a mad thing she is, and how nicely she 
served the count. They come over here with their empty 
titles, and imagine our girls have only to look at them to be 
ready to marry them,” and Mr. Westbrook picks up his paper 
once more. 


CHAPTER V. 

FOR THE LAST TIME. 

“ A LETTER for you, Lilian,” says Mrs. Holcombe, just as 
Lilian has her habit changed for a handsome house-dress. 

“ Lay it on the table there, auut,” says Lilian, carelessly. 

“ Lilian, I think it is from Harold. See, dear, isn’t it his 
writing?” - ^ 

“From Harold! Give it to me, quick! Yes,” looking 
at the superscription, “ it is Harold’s writing. Dear liar- 


30 


THE banker’s daughter. 


old,” and the color comes and goes in her face. “ I don’t 
think I have done just what is right, Aunt Fanny,” tearing 
open the envelope. 

“Lilian, — You promised me that you would accept no 
more invitations from the count. You have broken that 
promise. You have trifled with me for the last time. 1 can 
not live near you and have strength to keep from you, so 1 
shall place the ocean between us. To-morrow morning I sail 
for Kurope. Lilian, good-bye, forever. 

“Harold.” 

“Oh, Aunt Fanny, Aunt Fanny!” she throws up her 
hands and the words fall in a wail from her lips as she reels 
forward and is caught in her aunt’s arms. 

“ My darling, what is it?” says Mrs. Holcombe, with a 
frightened face. 

“ Read it, read it! I shall die if Harold goes away!” and 
covering her face with her hands, she sobs as if her heart 
will break. 

Mrs. Holcombe reads the letter, and slowly folding it, she 
says, thoughtfully: 

“ Lilian, Harold need not go.” 

“ He need not go! Oh, aunt, tell me — ” 

“ My child, you must write to him, asking him to come 
back to you — ” 

“ Never!” says Lilian, springing to her feet. • 

“ You rash child, would you risk your happiness forever?” 

“Yes, aunt, I would die rather than humble myself enough 
to call Harold Routledge back.” 

“ Lilian, you are going to live my life over again,” and her 
aunt put her arms about her. “I sent my lover away, Lili- 
an, and 1 wouldn’t humble my pride to call him back, hut, 
oh! Lilian, how often I wanted to call him back when it was 
too late. I married another, but my love haunted me; it 
confronted me again and again, and the years of my married 
life were years of bitterness and strife. Oh, Lilian, Lilian, if 
I could only picture to you my suflering — ” 

“ Aunt, don’t— it would be useless. 1 can not call Harold 
Routledge back, though my heart is breaking,” and Lilian 
burst out sobbing once more. 

“ Oh, you foolish girl! Let me write to him, Lilian.” 

“ You, aunt?” says Lilian, looking up. 

“Yes; I can write to him and call him back for you,” says 
Mrs. Holcombe, hopefully. 


THE banker’s daughter. 31 

“ Oh, aunt, he would think that I made you do it,” says 
Lilian, vvaveringly. 

“ Indeed he will not. I will write it in terms that will 
make him believe that you know nothing about it.” 

“ Oh, do you think you can do this, aunt?” cries Lilian, 
joyfully. 

“ My dear Lilian, did you hear the news?” cries Florence 
St. Vincent, bursting into the room. “ I have been looking 
all over the house for you.” 

Mrs. Holcombe and Lilian are annoyed at this interrup- 
tion, just at this moment. 

“ What news?” says Lilian. 

“What have you been crying about, Lilian Westbrook? 
Perhaps you are the cause of it. Now, why did I not think 
of that before?” 

“ The cause of what? S23eak!” cries Lilian. 

“ Why, the Count de Carojae sails for Europe to-morrow, 
having sworn vengeance against Harold Routledge.” 

“ Well?” says Lilian, breathlessly. 

“You are awfully interested, Lilian! And Harold Rout- 
ledge, it is thought, is going to Europe to hghc tlm count. 
They both take passage on the same steamer to-morrow.” 

“ Oh, Heaven! Aunt Fanny.” 

“ Be calm, my dear.” 

“ Is it really about you, Lilian? Oh! what a grand sensa- 
tion. Do let me be mixed up in it some.” 

“ Aunt Fanny, write that letter at once!” cries Lilian, her 
face deathly white; and she pays no attention to Florence. 

“ I’ll write it at once, my dear, and it will be all right; 
don’t be alarmed,” says Aunt Fanny, rising to leave the 
room. 

“ What letter? What is the matter?” says Florence. 

“Oh! nothing, Florence; only Harold and I have quarreled, 
and I do not want him to go away,” says Lilian, as her aunt 
disappears. 

“ And what about the count?” 

“ Oh! Florence, this has nothing to do with the Count de 
Carojae,” says Lilian, impatiently. 

“Oh! dear, why hasn’t it? It’s only a milk-and-water 
affair, after all, and hasn’t a bit of interest for me,” says 
Florence, dreadfully disappointed. 


S2 


THE DAKKER’S daughter. 


CHAPTER .VL 

AUNT FANNT^S LETTER. 

While Lilian was lightly dismissing the Count de Carojae, 
Harold Routledge was down-town in the office of an ocean 
steamship line. It took him but a short time to transact the 
business that brought him there, which was to secure a state- 
room on a vessel that would sail next morning. He appeared 
downcast as he^^left the office with a slow step. There was a 
dark, sullen look upon his handsome face as he walked 
moodily along with his eyes upon the ground. 

“ Halloo, Routledgel WhaCs the matter? Walking in your 
sleep? Hang it, man, when you are down here among busi- 
ness men, why donT you hold up your head, and. look as if 
you had some ‘ get up and get ’ about you?^^ and the weight 
of the hand that came down on Harold Routledge^s shoulder 
made him raise his head quickly. 

He smiled faintly as . he encountered the gaze of his friend, 
G. ^Washingtoii Phipps. 

“ Ah, Phipps, is it you?’^ 

“ Have you any doubt of it? What a sick smile. Rout- 
ledge! What ails you? You look as if you had been to a 
funeral,’^ said Mr. Phipps, in a hearty vbice. 

“ My looks do not belie my feelings, said Routledge, with 
bitterness. “ I have been at a burial to-day.’^ 

“.You have! Who is dead?’^ cried Phipps, with his usual 
impetuosity. 

“ To-day I have buried Hope,^’ answered Routledge, with 
emotion that he struggled to conceal. 

“ Hope — Hope,’^ said Phipps, with a mystified air. “ Who 
is he? any relation?'’^ with an expression of the deepest sym- 
pathy on his honest face. 

Harold Routledge turned his head to hide the look of dis- 
gust that swept over his handsome face. 

“ Hope is not a he— you don’t understand me, Phipps. I 
haven’t been to Greenwood, or any other neighboring ceme- 
tery. When I said 1 had been at a burial, I was not speaking 
in a literal sense.” 

Mr. Phipps looked at his friend, and gave a long-drawn 
“ Ah!” then he laughed outright as a new idea struck him. 
“ Now I have it, my boy : it’s the subject you have been study- 
ing out for a picture?” 

“ What is?” 


THE BAKKEIl^S HArGHTER. 


33 


“The Burial of Hope/’ 

Harold Routledge laughed in spite of himself, and tried to 
think of some way^of escape from the friend to whom he 
would have opened his heart but a few moments ago, for 
Routledge is of the sort of men that tell their trouble and feel 
better; rather, he is a hot-headed youth of two-aud- twenty, 
who, until he loved Lilian Westbrook, had'it all his own way 
with the world. He has had flirtations without number, he 
has trifled, and given pain — perhaps he did not know it, and 
again perhaps he did; but it is a new order of things for him 
to be trifled with, for him to be made to suffer, and he has 
neither the strength nor patience to bear it without a murmur. 

“I haven’t hit it exactly yet! Well, never ‘mind; don’t* 
leave in disgust,” and Phipps laid his hand upon Harold’s 
arm with a smile of good nature which that- gentleman could 
not resist. “ Every man to his trade, you know. Perhaps I 
understand your pictorial language just about as well as you 
could handle a piece of cotton cloth or silk.” G. Washington 
Phipps is a dry-goods merchant. 

“ Quite true, Phipps.” 

“ I want to ask you something — but one moment; I must 
see if 1 have the time,” and Mr. Phipps produced his note- 
book. “ I promised to deliver a case of goods to Brooks & 
Gorham at half past two ” — turning over the leaves — 

“ have several minutes to spare. Say, Routledge, did you 
remain long at Blaisdale’s last night?” 

“ Until three o’clock this morning.” 

“ Did you see Florence St. Vincent there?” 

“ Yes; she was still at -old Brown’s side when 1 left,” said 
Harold, sn6eringly. 

“ Ah, just what I wanted to ask you. I met Dane this 
morning, and he took particular pains to tell me that Florence’s 
name was on everybody’s lips last night because old Brown 
w'as desperately making love to her; but I thought he was 
only guying me, and 1 laughed it off,” 

“ Dane is mistaken. Old Brown was not making love to 
Miss Vincent,” said Harold, quietly. 

“ He wasn’t! Good. I knew Florence wouldn’t have it!” 
cried Phipps, joyfully. 

“ She wouldn’t! My dear Phipps, it was all Miss St. Vin- 
cent was fishing for. Old Brown was not making love to her, 
but she was making love to him.” 

Instantly Phipps’s sanguine face wore a crest-fallen expres- 
sion, as he stared at Harold, and, as misery loves company, 

3 


34 THE BAlfKER^S DAUGHTER. 

there was a triumphant little twinkle in the latter’s eyes as 
he regarded poor Phipps. 

“Now, Routledge, I tjiink that you are guying me/’ said 
Phipps, trying to smile. 

“ ’Pon my honor, I am not. Any one that wishes to tell 
you the truth, wil^tell you what 1 have told you. Everybody 
in the room last night saw through Miss St. Vincent’s con- 
duct— everybody but the one most interested. ' Very likely 
the old gent thought that it was he, and not his money-bags, 
that was the attraction.” 

“The old fool! he still thinks himself one of the boys/’ 
.said Phipps, looking ruefully down at his boots. 

“ Let her go, Phipps; think no more about her. She’s not 
worth an honest thought — none of them are. I tell you, 
Phipps, they are all the same. I sail for Europe early to- 
morrow morning. ” 

“ You sail for Europe to-morrow morning? Isn’t this sud- 
den?” 

If Harold Koutledge thought that Mr. Phipps would see any 
connection between “ none of them are — they are all the 
same,” and “ 1 sail for Europe early to-morrow morning,” 
he was very much mistaken. G. Washington Phipps is never 
troubled with an association of i'deas; he does not pretend to 
understand enigmatical or figurative language — plain, every- 
day English is good enough for him. And he is a man who 
is perfectly satisfied to stick to anything that he thinks is 
good. Harold’s last sentence astonished him, but he did not 
associate it with any of the rest of this conversation, nor with 
Harold’s dejected air; indeed, Mr.. Phipps forgot everything 
— Florence St. Vincent included — but the fact conveyed in 
Koutledge ’s last sentence. 

“ Well, rather sudden,” said Harold, disgusted with Phipps’s* 
obtuseness. 

“ How long are you going to stay away?” 

“Heaven only knows! Years— perhaps forever,” said 

Harold, bitterly. 

“ Bah! you don’t mean it!” 

“ 1 do. As sure as the sun rises to-morrow I shall leave my 
native land; and I have not the faintest idea when I shall re- 
turn.” 

“ Umph! Going to work over there, 1 suppose?” 

Harold nodded his head. 

“ Wouldn’t mind crossing the ocean myself. Would like 
to say, you know, that 1 had done Europe,” said Phipps, in 
so earnest a tone that it made Harold smile. 


THE BAMER^S ;DAUGHTEK. 


35 


“ I believe that is what takes a great many across the 
ocean/^ 

“ But it takes such a deucedly long time. Now^ how long 
do you suppose it would take me?^^ 

“ Well, I know you haven't much time to spare, Phipps. I 
think, if you understood just how to move about on the other 
side, you could see considerable in three months. 

“ Three months! see considerable*! Why, I was talking to 
a fellow that saw the whole thing in forty-one or something 
days — 

“ That beats Cook,^’ said Harold, laughing. 

“ Now, I Was thinking if Europe could be done in half that 
time-'' 

“ Oh, Phipps!" 

“ Oh, I know it is impossible just now; for hang it! there 
is the going and coming — and Brooks & Gorham's goods. I 
must attend to that order at once, so good-bye," and he 
grasped Routledge's hand, and shaking it heartily, continued: 
" Good-bye, old fellow, but 1 won't say for years, or forever, 
for 1 feel it in m.y bones that I shall see you again shortly." 

“ Perhaps when you can spare a fortnight to do Europe," 
smiled Harold. “Good-bye." 

“ An honest fellow^ with a heart too big for his body, but 
he hasn't got a soul above cotton cloth," thought Harold, as 
he left Phipps and hailed an omnibus that was going up- 
town. 

Three hours later he was in his fashionable lodgings near 
Madison Square, with the contents of his bureau drawers scat- 
tered about the floor, when a servant knocked at his door, and, 
obeying tlie summons to enter, handed him a letter. He tore 
open the envelope with trembling fingers. It was Aunt 
Fanny's letter, and read: “Harold, lose no time in coming 
to Lilian. She is broken-hearted over your letter, which she 
received but a few minutes after she had declined the honor 
of becoming the Countess de Oarojae, and sent the count 
away in a rage. Take the advice of one who has the welfare 
of yourself and Lilian at heart. Eoturn to her, and you 
never again will have cause to forgive her childish folly. You 
have taught her a lesson; let ttiat suffice. If you leave her 
now, you will not only make her miserable, but ruin your own 
happiness. I implore you, if you truly love her,-to return to 
her at once. " 

“ May Heaven bless Aunt Fanny!" cried Harold, with 
tears in his eyes, as he reread the letter. “ If I love her 
truly," as he finislies the letter once more. “Oh, Lilian, 


36 


THE BAN'KER’S daughter. 


Lilian, I never loved as I love you, and no woman shall ever 
take your place in my heart! And the count, my only rival, 
is rejected! Oh, thank God for that; I disliked that man so 
much. It chilled my blood to see Lilian smile at him. Dar- 
ling Lilian, I will go to her at once — but she has not asked me 
to come to her. She has not written this letter. 

Harold's face clouded,^ and crushing the letter in his hand, 
he walked the floor. 

“ Shall 1 give in? Shall I seek her again when, perhaps, 
she doesn't even know this letter has been written. Never! 
But 1 can not tear myself away now. She loves me, 1 love 
her; why should I place the ocean between us? 1 will answer 
Aunt' Fanny's letter;" and seating himself at his desk, he 
wrote with a trembling hand: “ Dear Mrs. Holcombe, I love 
Lilian truly, and well she knows it. I will lose no time in re- 
turning to her, if she will bid me come." 

“ There, that will make her meet me half-way," he said, 
with a sort of childish triumph, as he rang the bell for a mes- 
senger to take the letter to Mr. Westbrook's. 

The letter was gone, and Harold's heart beat wildly. His 
elbows rested on the desk and his face was buried in his hands. 

“ If she does not bid me come, 1 beUeve I shall go mad; if 
she doesn't, to the day I die I shall never forgive myself for 
sending that letter." 


CHAPTEK VII. 

“come to me, HAROLD." 

It is an hour since Lawrence Westbrook overheard his 
daughter dismissing the count, and still he sits before the 
glowing grate. The paper which he had been reading has 
dropped from his hand, and he has fallen into a doze, from 
which he is aroused now by Jerrold, who says: 

“ The mail, sir," and lie hands his master three letters. 

Lawrence Westbrook opens one, reads it through, drowsily, 
and throws it on the table. It is a business letter, and busi- 
ness has no interest for him to-day. He opens another with 
about as much animation as he did the first, but as he reads, 
all signs of drowsiness disappear. His interest increases with 
every word until he comes to the signature, which he sa 3 ^s 
aloud, in a fone of intense surprise: 

“ John Strebelow!" 

Ho looks at the letter for some moments in surprise, then 
says: 

"John Strebelow asking my permission to address Lilian 


THE banker’s daughter. 


37 


as a suitor. Why, I never dreamed he was in love with the 
little girl! This is the straightforward, manly thiug to do, 
but it is in keeping with the man. When did John Strebe- 
low ever do anything that was not straightforward and man- 
ly? That titled jackanapes did not think it worth the while 
to consult me before proposing to my daughter; and here 
Harold Routledge has been making love to &r, has actually 
won her heart, and not a word to me. Well, well, if 1 could 
choose Lilian’s husband for her, John Strebelow would be the 
man. True, he is years older than she, but if I know any- 
thing about it, that is just the husband that a spoiled, willful 
girl wants. If 1 were on my death-bed to-day, I could die 
content if I knew that Lilian was John Strebelow’s wife. 
But what is the use of talking in this strain? I shall never 
coerce my daughter to marry any man, and I know, of her 
own free will, she will never marry John Strebelow,” says 
the banker, with a sigh. “ He is coming to-night for his an- 
swer. I know what it will be, still ITl show this letter to 
Lilian. How surprised she will be, 1 know that she does 
not dream any more than I did that John Strebelow enter- 
tained any other than a friendly feeling for her. How 1 wish 
I could make her see this man with my eyes;” and the banker 
touches the bell. 

Lisette answers it. . 

“ Tell Miss Lilian that I wish to see her here.” 

Lisette meets Lilian coming down the stairs with Florence, 
and gives her the banker’s summons. The two girls reach 
the door of the extension-room, where Lawrence Westbrook 
awaits his daughter, when a white-haired old gentleman with 
a limping gait, who has been admitted by a servant a few mo- 
ments before, approaches them as Lilian has her hand upon 
the door-knob. 

“How do you do, Mr. Babbage?” says Lilian; and Flor- 
ence, who is not particularly fond of this old gentleman, re- 
peats Lilian’s words. 

“ Oh, very well, my little girls. Is your father in here, 
Lilian?” says Mr. Babbage, in his cold, hard tone. 

“ Yes, sir,” answers Lilian. 

“ Then run away and play with your dolls. 1 want to speak 
to him.” 

He laid his hand affectionately on Lilian’s head as he spoke, 
but his tone was none the softer, nor did the stern lines on 
his face relax as he opened the door and passed into the room. 

“ Play with our dolls!” And Florence laughs gayly when 
Mr. Babbage is out of sight. “ I think it is time for me to 


38 


THE BAHKER^S DAUGHTER. 


go home, Lilian. By-by; and I’m sure you will have a more 
cheerful face when 1 see 3 "ou again, for Harold Routledge has 
no more intention of going to Europe to-morrow than 1 
have. He only wants to frighten you. Oh, how I wish I 
had him to deal with!” and Florence laughs aloud once more 
as she kisses Lilian lightly on the cheek and trips away. 

“ She will never suffer,” is Lilian’s mental comment, ac- 
companied with a sigh as she looks after Florence. “ Yet I 
would not care to think as Florence does.” 

She has ascended a few steps of the staircase when the door- 
bell rings. She pauses, her heart fluttering wildly. Perhaps 
it is Harold. She runs up the stairs and stands concealed at 
the head of the flight, listening, as the servant opens the- 
door. 

“ A letter for Mrs. Holcombe, and I will wait for an an- 
swer,” she hears a voice say. 

It is not Harold, and her heart sinks; but something tells 
her that the messenger is from him, and breathless she makes 
her appearance before Aunt Fanny. 

“ A letter for you, aunt; get it quickly. I am sure it is 
from Harold;” and trembling with excitement, Lilian sinks in 
a chair as the servant appears with Mrs. Holcombe’s letter, 
and tells her that the messenger is waiting for an answer. 

“ 1 will ring for you when it is ready,” says Mrs. Hol- 
combe; and the servant disappears. 

It is Harold’s letter, and as Mrs. Holcombe is reading it, 
Lilian is on tiptoe looking over her shoulder. 

“ Oh, aunt, must I do that?” she says, taking in the mean- 
ing of the letter as quickly as Mrs. Holcombe. 

“ Lilian, will you make both of your lives miserable by 
keeping that^one word back?” 

“ If he cared anything about me, he would have come him- 
self instead of sending that letter;” and Lilian burst into 
tears. 

This girl has more pride and self-will than her aunt dreams 
of. 

“ Lilian, have you not read what he says? ‘ He loves you 
^ truly, and well you know it.’ ” 

Lilian’s face brightens in spite of her tears, but she does 
not answer, and her aunt continues: 

“ Harold humbled himself to come here to-day. I suppose 
because he thought that he had judged you wrongfully or too 
hastily the night of the ball. He came, and if you had been 
here, you would not be in tears now. Is it not your fault, 
Lilian, that this quarrel is not made up? You promised 


THE banker’s daughter. 30 

Harold that you would accept no more iuvitatioiis from the 
count, but he came here to-day — ” 

“ Aunt, you are right,” cried Lilian, with an impetuosity 
prompted by her generous nature. “ I confess that I did wrong 
to-day. Harold, indeed, loves me, or he would never forgive 
me. 1 will say the word,” 

“ My precious darling, I knew you would,” cries Aunt 
Fanny, kissing her; and she hurriedly places a pen in her 
hand and a sheet of paper before her. 

“ Come to mo, Harold,” wrote Lilian; and showing it to 
her aunt, she cries: 

“ Will that do, aunt?” 

“ Very nicely, dear.” 

“ Then send it away quickly,” cries Lilian, joyfully. “ Oh, 
aunt,* I am so happy,” she says, kissing her aunt, when that 
lady has placed Lilian’s answer in the servant’s hand. 

“ Lilian, be quiet a moment; 1 want you to promise me 
that you will never again willfully offend Harold.” 

“ There is my hand on it, aunt; from this day forth 1 am 
going to be another girl.” 

And Lilian has spoken the truth. From this day forth she 
is going to be another girl; but little she dreams what is going 
to cause the change. 


CHAPTER VIIl. 

ON THE VERGE OP RUIN. 

Mr. Babbage is senior member of the banking firm of Bab- 
bage & Westbrook. A very eccentric old gentleman, with 
sparse locks of snowy whiteness scattered on the temples of a 
face that seldom relaxes into a smile. The tone of his voice 
never varies, even under the most exciting circumstances. 

A crabbed old chap,” says the casual observer. Yet de- 
spite the rather unprepossessing appearance, a heart warm and 
tender beats beneath that cold, unrelenting exterior. 

Lawrence Westbrook, hearing the door open and shut, 
pushes aside the screen, thinking that it is his daughter that 
has entered the room. Instead of Lilian he sees his partner, 
and, though he has been associated with him every day for a 
number of years, he discerns no forewarning, in the aged face, 
of the terrible news he brings with him. 

“ Good-day, Babbage; what’s the news?” asks Lawrence 
Westbrook, carelessly. 

“ You haven’t been out to-day, or you would surely have 


40 THE hanker’s daughter. 

heard the news,” says Babbage, seating himself near his pa^’t- 
ner. 

“No,” says Wgstbrook, with a yawn. “I was up late 
again last night, and I did not feel like attending to business 
to-day.” 

“ tJmph! you’ll find late hours won’t agree with you after 
this. How much is this house worth, Larry?” 

Lawrence Westbrook sits erect in his chair now, and stares 
at Babbage in surprise; but the old man’s face tells no tales/ 
and he says, in exactly the same key: 

“ How much, Larry?” 

“ Seventy-five thousand dollars. Why do you want to 
know?” 

Instead of answering the question, the old man asked an- 
other: 

“ Seventy-five thousand dollars free and clear — no lien?” 

“ Seventy-five thousand dollars free and clear — but no; I 
raised fifty thousand dollars on it 3^esterday, for a private 
speculation. It will only be a matter of a few days’ stand- 
ing.” 

“ Then the last hope is gone — we are ruined!” and Mr. 
Babbage’s hands drop upon his knees. 

“■Ruined! Babbage, what do you mean?” cries Lawrence 
Westbrook, quickly. 

“ I mean just what I say, Larry,” says Babbage, without 
the slightest change of voice or facial expression. “ We are 
ruined. To-morrow the world will know that Babbage & 
Westbrook are insolvent.” 

“ My God! it can not be! Babbage, how could such a 
thing come about? The firm of Babbage & Westbrook bank- 
rupt! No, no, man; you are dreaming!” says the banker, 
very much like a man who is trying to awake from a dream 
himself. 

“ Larry, I wish I was dreaming. How could such a thing 
come about? If you were attending to your business to-day 
you would know. Ah! Lawrence Westbr'ook, you can not 
say that you have not been warned. I have talked to you 
about your mode of living, your late hours, your wild specu- 
lations, but you thought that Lawrence Westbrook could not 
fail; that, according to the eternal fitness of things, every- 
thing you touched must turn to gold. Out of the wreck you 
might have saved the roof that sheltered you — not only you, 
but your child. Ah, there is the rub; I can’t bear to think 


THE BANKEK’S DAU^GHTEE. 


41 


ia all the years they had worked together, Westbrook sees a 
tear gleam in the old man^s eyes. 

“ Babbage, for God’s sake explain!” cries the banker, in a 
trembling voice. 

His face is deathly pale and his eyes are starting from their 
sockets as he rises excitedly, and resting his hands upon the 
table that stands between him and Babbage, leans forward, 
holding his breath as he awaits the old man’s reply. 

“ Have you not heard of the London failures?” 

“ I read of them, in the morning paper. But how can they 
affect us?” he says, in a voice intense with suppressed emo- 
tion. 

“ The failures have involved Keene & Gaylor, and we hold - 
four hundred thousand dollars’ worth of their paper.” 

Lawrence Westbrook falls back in his chair, and Mr. Bab- 
bage continues: 

” If this house was not mortgaged, we might raise enough 
money on it to meet the present emergency; but it is no use 
of talking of that now, and there is no way to save ourselves.” 

” No way!” cries Westbrook, in desperation. ” Babbage, 
how much do we want?” 

♦ “ Thirty thousand dollars, and there is no way for us to 

raise a dollar, for the rumor is already flying about the street 
that we are in a tight corner. ” 

Lawrence Westbrook sees clearly now the terrible strait they 
are in. 

“My God! how shall I break this to Lilian? My child, 
what will become of her?” 

“ Larry, what will become of the dead men’s children 
whose money was placed with you for safe-keeping? When it 
is known that you are a bankrupt, do you know that you will 
be branded all over the world? The widows and orphans that 
have intrusted their all — ” 

“ Stop, Babbage, stop! you will drive me mad!” cries the 
banker, in a hoarse voice, as he bows his head upon the table. 

“ Ah, Larry, you want me to spare you now; but if you 
had followed my advice this blow would never have fallen 
upon us.” 

“Thirty thousand dollars!” says the banker, raising his 
head, and looking as if he has been struck by a sudden 
thought. “ I believe 1 know one that won’t refuse me that 
amount, large as it is.” 

“ Who is it?” asks Babbage, with no perceptible concern. 

“ John Strebelow.” 

John Strebelow! Well, he could let you have it; but he 


42 


THE banker's daughter. 


has heard the rumor on the street to-day, and he won't be so 
foolish as to risk such a sum. " 

“ Babbage, I am sure he will let me have it. * Here is a let- 
ter I received from him not half an hour ago, asking me for 
my daughter.' 

Babbage slowly eyes the banker, who has risen to his feet all 
excitement. 

“And what does your daughter say about it?" says Bab- 
bage, dr 3 dy. 

“ She knows nothing about it yet." 

“ Larry, do you think your daughter loves John Strebelow?" 

“ I don't know," says the banker, hurriedly. “ She ought 
to love him, Babbage, for you know yourself she could not 
get a better husband. " 

“ Yes, I know that; but, Larry " — Babbage hesitates— “ I 
know I'm a cross-grained old fogy, supposed to know nothing 
about love, but it isn't what Lilian ought to do. The question 
is, does she love this man?" 

“ Babbage," cries Westbrook, impatiently, “ it is my duty 
to secure my daughter’s future, and I could not place her in 
more trustworthy hands than John Strebelow's;" and the 
banker walks the floor, probably to get rid of his partner'^ 
eyes. _ 

“ See here, Larry, I protest against your selling that little 
girl to save us,'’ says Babbage, emphatically. 

“ Babbage, do you think I'm a brute? I love my daugh- 
ter — " 

“ I'm sure of that, Larry; but when men find themselves 
in a desperate predicament they forget to be human. You 
are, emphatically, a young man, Larry. You can work and 
make a living for yourself and your child. 1 am too old to 
think of beginning over again. I can not help myself; but be 
it so. I'd rather die of starvation in the street than that you 
should make market of Lilian's heart:" and though the old 
man's voice sounds crisp and cold, another tear glistens in 
his eye. 

“ Babbage," says the banker, in a choking voice, “ I prom- 
ise you that 1 will use no force with Lilian, save laying my sit- 
uation before her. She shall choose between John Strebelow 
and poverty. '*' 

“ Ah, Larry, that will be placing a great temptation in her 
way," says Babbage, shaking his head. 

“Lilian is‘ way ward and stubborn, Babbage. She’ll do as 
she pleases in this matter. Don't take trouble on yourself 


THE bankek's daughter. 43 

about her. J ust step into the library and wait there until I 
have had a talk with her, and I will let you know the result. 

Lawrence Westbrook tries to speak lightly. He touches 
the bell and Mr. Babbage rises, saying : 

“ Remember, Larry, you have promised me that you will 
not coerce her.'’^ 

The banker nods his head, .and Mr. Babbage leaves the room 
as Lisette appears. Once more the banker says: 

“ Tell Miss Lilian I want to see her here.^’ 

How changed is his position since last he gave that sum- 
mons! 

Like a lark that has spread its wings and soared far above 
the earth, Lilian is singing in her sweet, clear voice, her aunt 
sitting by, a happy listener, as Lisette enters the room and de- 
livers her message. 

“ Oh, dear,^^ says Lilian, springing to her feet, “ this is the 
second time father has had to send for me. Aunt Fanny,’’ 
she says, standing behind that lady’s chair and bowing her head 
until her lips touch her cheek, “ call me the moment Havold 
comes,” and blushing to the roots of her golden hair, she flies 
away before her aiint can turn her head. 

Gayly she trips down the stairs, humming a merry tune, her 
eyes dancing, her face aglow. Not the faintest presentiment 
of coming trouble hangs over her as she opens the door of the 
extension room, yet when she crosses that threshold she leaves 
the old life in its glowing colors behind her forever. 

Her father is sitting 'with his face turned from her as she 
enters. He does not move, and she, smiling and dimpling, 
approaches him on tiptoe; then suddenly throwing her arms 
around his neck, she gives him a hearty kiss, as she cries: 

“ Oh, father, I am so happy, I could kiss every one 1 meet!” 

There is a slight pause, and the banker has to clear his 
throat before he says : 

“ And what makes my daughter so happy?” 

He does not look up at her as he speaks, and Lilian thinks 
his voice sounds strange; but she is too lull of her happiness 
to make any comment upon it. She bends 07er him and 
whispers in his ear: 

“ Because, 1 have made up with Harold. I expect him 
every moment.” 

“I suppose you think you love Harold Routledge,” says 
the banker, without changing his position. 

“ I don’t think anything about it, father; I kno\y I do,” 
says Lilian, smoothing the iron-gray hair and feeling very 


44 


THE banker’s daughter. 


much pleased that her father is not looking at her; in this 
position she can talk of Harold more freely to him. 

“ A girlish infatuation/' says the banker. 

“ Now, father, please don't tease me,* for 1 must tell you 
that I have become a very sensible girl within the last hour — " 

“ I am glad to hear that." 

“ And more I intended to tell you," says Lilian, not heed- 
ing the interruption: “ I love Harold Routledge sincerely,- shall 
never love any one else the longest day 1 live; and dear^ good, 
kind father, I want you to say that you will accept him as a 
son-in-law," says Lilian, who has given her father a hug with 
every adjective she applied to him. 

“ Harold Eoutledge is a poor artist." 

“ Father, look in my face and say that. I believe you are 
only trying me. Why should we think of his poverty? If he 
is a poor man, have I not enough to make him rich.?"" says 
Lilian, lightly. 

“ Lilian, 1 am sorry that you care anything for Harold Bout- 
ledge." 

The banker rises from his chair and confronts his daughter 
as he says these words. 

Lilian looks in his face and starts back. Is that her father's 
face? An icy hand seems to clutch her heart, the bright girl- 
ishness fades out of her face. The last ray of the old life has 
vanished ,and will never again illumine the fair face of Lilian 
Westbrook. 


CHAPTEE IX. 

H E VE R AGAIN. 

Mrs. Holcombe picked up her embroidery when Lilian left 
her. She worked at it until daylight began to fade away, and 
now it lies in her lap as she sits in the deepening shadow in a 
thoughtful mood. It is time Harold Eoutledge was here, she 
is thinking, when Lisette knocks for admittance. 

The girl, entering in obedience to Mrs. Holcombe's sum- 
mons, and seeing some one sitting in the darkness, says: 

“ Is Miss Lilian here?" 

“ No," says Mrs. Holcombe, quickly rising; “ has any one 
called for her?" 

“ Yes, ma'am, Mr. Eoutledge is in the reception-room." 
answers Lisette. , 

“ Say to him that Miss Westbrook will be down directly. I 
shall tell her that he is waiting. " 


tHE BANKER^S DAUGHTER. 


45 


“ Thank Heaven/^ murmurs Mrs. Holcombe; and she hur- 
ries away to impart the joyful news to Lilian. 

Where is Lilian? Still with her father, Mrs. Holcombe 
thinks, as she directs her footsteps toward the extension 
room. She does not enter the room, but holding the door 
sligghtly ajar, calls softly: 

“Lilian.” 

There is no answer; she can hear the sound of no voices, 
talking within, and she sees that the gas has not been lighted. 
She pushes open the door. The blaze of coal in the grate 
throws a ruddy glow over the room. Neither Lilian nor her 
father is there. 

“ Strange, Lilian did not come back to me,” says Mrs. Hol- 
combe to herself, turning from the room. 

As she closes the door she sees her brother and Mr. Bab- 
bage coming out of the library, and she hears the banker say: 

“ You might have known, Babbage, that a girl of her bring- 
ing up would not choose povert}’. ” 

Mrs. Holcombe pays no attention to that sentence now. She 
salutes Mr. Babbage, and asks her brother if Lilian is in the 
library, 

“ Lilian left me some fifteen minutes ago*. 1 think you^ll 
find her in her own apartments.” 

There is nothing unusual in the banker^s face or voice to 
excite a suspicion in Mrs. Holcombe’s breast that anything 
has gone wrong; but she does think it strange, as she hurries 
to Lilian’s apartments, that her niece should pass her door 
and not step in to tell her where to find her if Harold came. 

Lilian has three connecting rooms for her own use — boudoir, 
bedroom, and dressing-room. Mrs. Holcombe opens the door 
of the boudoir and walks in. Like the extension room, it is 
in darkness, save the light from the grate. Seeing no one, 
she crosses the room to the door that connects the suite. The 
remaining rooms are in darkness. 

“ Lilian, are you here?” 

No ^nswer co;nes, but Mrs. Holcombe has entered the bed- 
room, and as her eyes get accustomed to the darkness she 
thinks she sees a form upon the bed. 

“Poor child! she has fallen asleep,” says Mrs. Holcombe, 
as she reaches the bedside and lays her hand upon Lilian. 

“lam not asleep, aunt,” says a voice that sounds strange 
to Mrs. Holcombe, who has her hands on Lilian’s brow. 

“ What ails you, Lilian? you are as cold as ice!” 

“ A little headache, that is all;” and Lilian buries her face 
in the pillow. 


46 


THE banker’s daughter. 


“ Ah, this is from your day’s excitemeut. Lilian, Harold 
has come. 'Now you will feel better. Get up and make your- 
self presentable-wait, 1 will light the gas;’' and Mrs. Hol- 
combe starts to put her words into execution. 

“No, don’t— don’t light the gas;” and Lilian is in an up- 
right position instantly. 

Mrs. Holcombe stands in amazement. ^ 

“ Aunt, come here;” and when Mrs. Holcombe approaches 
her, Lilian grasps her arm. “ 1 can not see Harold. Go to 
him — tell him— tell him — ” 

• “ My dear child, what ails you? You can not mean that 
you will not see Harold?” says her aunt, in surprise. 

“ Aunt, 1 have said that I can not see him, and I mean 
what I say. Go; do not keep him waiting;” and she pushes 
her aunt from her. 

“ Lilian,” and her aunt’s voice is full of surprise and re- 
proach, “ you sent for Harold and he is here. What do you 
mean by saying that you will not see him?” 

“ Nothing more than this, aunt: 1 have changed my mind 
since I wrote to him.” 

There is a warl inthe voice that goes. to Aunt Fanny’s tender 
heart. 

“ Lilian, what has happened? What has caused you to 
change your mind?” She scrutinizes Lilian’s face as she 
speaks. In the darkness it lool^s as if it is cut from a jnece of 
marble. 

“ 1 will tell you by and by, aunt. I can never again see 
Harold Eoutledge.” And again she sinks upon the bed, and 
buries her face in the pillow. 

“ Lilian, darling, 1 can not tell Harold this. Oh! it is so 
absurd. What excuse shall 1 make to him for your conduct?” 

“ Aunt,” says Lilian, raising her head, “ 1 have no excuse 
to offer. I have changed my mind; that is all I have to. say; 
I never again can meet Harold Eoutledge. Aunt, if you love 
me, go and send him away; it is all that you can do for me 
now.” - * 

There is a metallic ring in her voice, and she clasps her 
hands in a despairing way. Can this be “ airy, fairy Lilian?’^ 

“ Lilian, I really do not know how to act. Think of Harold 
waiting for you at this moment with a heart filled with joy and 
hope — ” 

“ Aunt, you madden me! Will you go to him, or shall I 
ring for Lisette?” 

Lilian Westbrook never addressed her aunt in that tone of 


THE EANKER^S DAUGHTER. 47 

voice before. She steps toward the bell as she speaks, but 
her aunt holds her back, sayiug, quietly: 

“ I will go to him, Lilian;'^ and she turns and leaves the 
room without another word. 

“ Aunt, aunt, come back!'' cries Lilian. 

Her aunt does not hear her, and instead of following her, 
she sinks upon the bed and moans; 

“ Never again, never again 

“ What shall I say to him?’^ says Mrs. Holcombe, as she 
slowly makes her way to the reception-room. “ If I tell him 
that Lilian will not see him, he \yill never forgive her in this 
world. He will leave the country, as he threatened, and they 
will both be miserable for life. What does her wild talk 
mean? Something has surely happened, but what it is 1 can 
not imagine. Can she have heard anything wrong about 
Harold? Yes, she^must have, and on the impulse of the mo- 
ment she would send him away; to-morrow, when it will be 
too late, she will be sorry for her rashness. She will wish 
that she had inquired into the matter, or asked an explanation 
from Harold. She pauses before the reception-room door. 

“ I think I shall be doing my duty,^^ she argues with her- 
self, “if I do not tell him what Lilian has said to me. To- 
night she will tell me what the trouble is. I shall talk to her, 
and to-morrow her heart will break if she does not see Harold. 
1^11 tell him to call to-morrow;^^ and Mrs. Holcombe walks 
into the reception-room, not daring to trust herself to argue 
the question further. 

The fifteen minutes Harold Routledge has been waiting 
for Lilian have seemed as many hours. “ Come to me, 
Harold. He is beside himself with joy over those words. 
Now he thinks that he was- to blame; he was too hasty, and, 
wonderful to say, he is willing to acknowledge the same to 
Lilian. He has been so utterly miserable, so near losing her 
forever. From dark despair he was raised in a twinkle into the 
effulgence of hope ar^d joy, and the reaction is too much for 
him. Harold Routledge is hardly himself when he thinks that 
he is blamable, and, as the son of the Emerald Isle says, “ He"s 
not himself at all when he is willing to ask forgiveness. 

* The door opened after fifteen minutes^ waiting, and hot- 
headed two-aiid-twenty rushes forward with extended arms. 
It is Mrs. Holcombe, and abashed, the young man retreats. 

The action is not lost upon Mrs. Holcombe, and it wrings 
her kind heart. 

“ I thought it was Lilian/" he stammers. 

“ I have just come from Lilian, Harold; she is not well — "" 


48 THE bae'ker's daughter. 

“Not well enough to see me?^" says Harold, in a trembling 
voice. 

“ Not to-night, Harold."" 

“ Is it anything serious, Mrs. Holcombe?"" 

“ I hope not. I think she is suffering from to-day’s excite- 
ment. I went looking for her when Lisette told me that you 
were here, and I found her lying on her bed far from being 
well. I thought it best for her to remain quiet."" 

“ Perhaps it is best,"" says Harold; but his air and tone tell 
plainly how disappointed he is. 

“ My dear Harold,"" says*Mrs. Holcombe, “ I am glad that 
you have come at Lilian"s request, and 1 hope that your last 
difference is settled;"" and Mrs. Holcombe lays her hand kindly 
on the young man’s shoulder. 

“ Rest assured, dear madame, that it is. There will never 
again be any occasion for making up between Lilian and me. 

I wish I could see her to-night. "" 

“ Harold, have patience until to-morrow. 1 must keep Lil- 
ian quiet to-night. If you must know the truth, I am not a lit- 
tle worried about her."" 

“ Then you think she is very sick?"" says Harold, quickly. 

“ No; but I think she may be very sick if I do not keep 
her perfectly quiet."" 

“ I suppose I must have patience. Mrs. Holcombe, was she 
not anxious to see me when you told her I was here?"" 

“ What a question, Harold!"" hesitatingly, as she did not ex- 
pect this question, and not wishing to tell a deliberate lie. 
“ Did Lilian not cast aside her pride to ask you to come?’" - . 

“ Yes, yes,"" he says, with emotion, “ it was a foolish ques- 
tion. I will go, and not keep you longer from Lilian. Tell 
her that I was very much disappointed, and that I think to- 
morrow will never come. Shall 1 call early to-morrow?"" 

“ Before noon, if you please.’" 

“ And if there is anything serious the matter with Lilian, 
you will let me know?"" he asks, with a "troubled look. 

Mrs. Holcombe assures him that she will, and he leaves the 
house with a much heavier heart than when he entered. 

Fifteen minutes later, G. Washington Phipps, who is talk- 
ing to a party of gentlemen in front of the Fifth Avenue 
Hotel, espies Harold as he is crossing Madison Square. He 
leaves his acquaintance and overtakes Harold. 

“ At what hour does the steamer sail to-morrow, Harold? I 
want to be there to s'ee you off."" 

“ Thank you, Phipps; but I’m not going off,"" says Harold, 
smiling. 


THE BA^TKER^S DAUGHTER. 49 

“ Do you moan to say that you are not going to sail for Eu- 
rope to-morrow?^’ says Phipps, in astonishment. 

“ ^es; I have changed my mind since 1 was talking to you 
a fewihours ago.^^ 

“ Oh, you have! Well, Fm glad to hear it, but Fve circu- 
lated the news that you are going away, all over town. You 
see, 1 met Mr. St. Vincent in Wall Street just after 1 left you, 
and 1 told him. He went home and told Florence, and 1 sup- 
pose her dear five hundred friends know that you are going to 
Europe to-morrow, never to return to your native shore. 

“ No harm is done, my friend; only those who wish me well 
— at a distance — will be disagreeably surprised to-morrow to 
learn that 1 have come to the conclusion that New York is 
still good enough for me,^^ says Harold, laughing. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE DECEPTION. 

“ Brother,^^ says Mrs. Holcombe, when they meet at the 
dinner-table, “ can you tell me what is the matter with Lil- 
ian?’^ 

“ What seems to be the matter with her?'’ asks the banker, 
carelessly. 

“ I can't explain. I was with her half an hour ago, and 
she lay upon the bed as cold as if her room was a refrigerator. 
She acted so strangely and her voice seemed unnatural. Some- 
thing has gone wrong, of that I am certain, though she would 
not tell me. Coming here I knocked on her door, but she 
would not admit me. I asked her if she would not come down 
to dinner, and she answered that she did not care to eat any- 
thing. Now, you know, Lawrence, that isn't like Lilian." 

Mrs. Holcombe is looking at her brother, but he avoids her 
troubled gaze by keeping his eyes on his plate as he says: 

“ That isn't like Lilian! Aren't you mistaken, Fanny? 
Lilian is like April weather: one never can depend on her 
from one hour to another. The best way is to let her alone— 
do not bother her, and she will be herself to-morrow." 

“ I doubt it very much," says Mrs. Holcombe, quickly, and 
in a significant tone, for she is not to be deceived by the 
banker's manner. 

There is something in the tone of his voice, in his down- 
cast look, that tells her he knows more of Lilian's trouble than 
he wishes to make known. 

“ Why do you doubt it? Plave you not seen Lilian whim- 
sical before to-day?" says the banker, impatiently. 


50 


THE banker’s DAUGHTE] 

“Yes, Lawrence,” says Mrs. Holcombe, sadly, “ I have 
seen Lilian whimsical. Trust a woman to understand a 
woman. I have studied every turn of Lilian’s, and yQd can 
depend on my word when 1 say that ta-night she is chanf.ed — 
she is not the Lilian of this morning.” 

“ A stretch of imagination,” says the banker, with a slight 
exhibition of temper. “ To-morrow morning you will find 
your judgment at fault, for she will not be the Lilian of to- 
night.” 

Mrs. Holcombe is annoyed. Every word the banker ^eaks 
tells her that he is trying to conceal something from her. 

“ Lawrence, if ever there was despair in a person’s voice or 
face, it is in your daughter’s this evening.” 

“ Fanny, do talk like the matter-of-fact woman that you 
are, and I^will listen to you,” says the banker, in a highly 
displeased tone, as he rises from the table, having scarcely 
touched his dinner, and leaves the room. 

“ Well, that only convinces me that something has happened 
in this house that I do not know anything about,” says Mrs. 
Holcombe to herself. 

Meeting Jerrold in the hall-way, the banker says: 

“ I expect Mr. Strebelow to-night. 1 will be in the exten- 
sion room. Show him there when he comes, and I am not at 
home to any one else, expect Mr. Babbage.” 

Scarce an hour passes when Jerrold announces Mr. Strebe- 
low, and the towering form passes Jerrold, and, with an elastic 
step, meets the banker, who has risen from his chair and is 
stepping forward to greet John Strebelow with outstretched 
hand and smiling face. 

John Strebelow’s handsome, frank face is a trifle paler than 
usual. Though possessed of fine self-control, he can not con- 
ceal his great anxiety at this moment when the happiness of 
his life depends upon the words that will fall from the bank- 
er’s lips. 

“ I am happy to see you here to-night, John Strebelow,” 
says the banker, grasping the gentleman’s hand, and pressing 
it warmly. 

“ And you received my letter?” says Strebelow, eagerly, 
not wishing to be deceived by the banker’s manner. 

“ Yes, I received your letter, John, and I welcome you here 
to-night — ” 

“ Do you mean, Mr. Westbrook, that you bid me hope, 
that you encourage my suit?” interrupts John Strebelow, the 
fine glow appearing upon his cheeks. 


THE BAKKER^S DAUGHTER. 


51 


“I not onl}" encourage your suit, but I accept you for my 
future son-in-law.'^ 

“ I did not expect this," exclaims John Strebelow, in a tone 
of mjngled surprise and joy. “ I only asked your permission 
to pay my addresses to your daughter to try to win her heart. 
Have you consfilted Lilian? You know without her consent 
you have no right to accept me." 

"My dear Strebelow," says the banker, smilingly, "it 
would be of little use for nie to accept you without that willful 
girl’s consent. You ought to know her pretty well by this 
time, Strebelow — a spoiled child, has her own way about 
everything, will walk rough-shod over you, my dear boy, if 
you are not forever on the alert," concludes Westbrook, in a 
.jocular maimer. 

" Ob, I’m not afraid of that," smiles Strebelow; and he 
looks thoughtful for a few moments, and his mental comments 
are: " This is more than 1 hoped for. 1 do not understand it. 
Can it be that there is any motive — " 

He looks sharply at the banker as a thought suddenly 
strikes him. Westbrook meets his gaze unflinchingly, though 
his heart is beating with fear, and he thinks John Strebelow 
will never speak. 

"Mr. Westbrook," says Strebelow, almost as suddenly as 
the thought strikes him, " I wish to ask you a' question." 

" A thousand if you wish," says the banker. 

" You must not be offended at the question lam about to 
ask; for the honest dealing that, 1 believe, should exist be- 
tween man and man, prompts it. Tell me candidly, Mr. 
Westbrook, is there any truth in the rumor that was fly- 
ing about the street to-day, that the. firm of Babbage & West- 
brook is on the verge of bankruptcy?" 

" Ha! ha! ha! Don’t you know, Strebelow, that such 
things are always exaggerated? After what has passed be- 
tween us here I owe it to you to be candid with you, and I will 
tell you' just how much truth there is in the rumor. The 
failures in London have effected us slightly. AVe find our- 
selves a little tight for money, and that rumor getting out 
makes it rather difficult for us to raise any; but if there was a 
run on us to morrow the world would very soon know that the 
firm of Babbage & Westbrook is anything but bankrupt." 

John Strebelow’sdark eyes are on the banker as he speaks, 
but he can detect nothing but frankness and sincerity, and 
when the banker concludes, he says in his manly, earnest way: 

. " Mr. Westbrook, why did you not call on me if you found 

it difficult to get a loan?" 


52 


THE banker's daughter. 


“ Thank you, my dear Strebelow; but I knew we could get 
it by to-morrow if we were pinched, though 1 must confess 
we are very much inconvenienced/' says the banker, in an 
olf-hand manner that completely deceives Strebelow. 

“ Allow me to be of some assistance;" and John Strebelow 
quickly takes a seat at the table and draws his check-book 
from his pocket. He never does a favor flourishingly. “ How 
much are you in need of?" he asks, modestly. 

“ Thirty thousand dollars," replies the banker. 

“ Thirty thousand dollars," repeats John Strebelow, as he 
makes out his check for that amount. 

There it is, Mr. Westbrook; and you can give me what- 
ever security you have convenient, " says J ohn Strebelow, ris- 
ing, and handing the banker the check. 

“ Thank you, thank you, Strebelow," says the banker, with 
much feeling; and as he takes the check a great load is raised 
from his heart, for he knows that he holds in his hand a piece 
of paper that will save the firm of Babbage & Westbrook from 
bankruptcy. 

“ Say no more about that, my friend, but tell me what Lil- 
ian said. Did you show her my letter?" says Strebelow, 
softly, eagerly. 

“ 1 did," says -the banker, smiling. 

“ And she was very much surprised? — 1 know she was. 
What did she say?" 

“ She was surprised, and she said nothing for some time, 
but stared at the letter, hardly knowing, I believe, whether to 
laugh or cry. ‘ Well, Lilian,' I said, ‘ what do you think of 
it?' She burst into tears as she answered, impulsively: ‘Oh, 
father, John Strebelow is too good, too noble for such a silly 
girl as I.' " , 

“The man doesn’t live that is too good for Lilian West- 
brook," burst from the lips of John Strebelow, and his face 
becomes roseate. 

“ She said," continues the banker, “ that she loved you, but 
she never dreamed that yq^i cared anything for her. The 
knowledge has been a sort of shock to her, that is, she can not 
yet realize that you love her and wish to make her your wife. 
It was really amusing to hear her talk; you know she is so 
young and inexperienced. She says that she knows she will 
be awfully frightened when she sees you, and that she never 
can tell you that she loves you and will be your wife, that I 
must do that part for her; and she knows that she will stand 
in awe of you for a long, long time, you are so much better 
, than she, so very far above her; but she is going to be on her 


THE - BAlTKEIl'S DAUGHTER. 53 

very best beliavior, she would have me tell you, that she is go- 
ing to be so very different in the future to what she has been 
in the past;^^ and the banker laughs heartily, as he concludes 
with; “ You see, Strebelow, .you are a sort of king among men 
to this silly, romantic little girl of mine.^’ 

“ God bless her,^’ John Strebelow says. “ May she never 
change her opinion of me. Can I see her, Mr. Westbrook?^’ 

“ Certainly; she told me to send for her when you came,’^ 
says the banker, touching the bell, “ to send for her after I 
had told you all. Lisette, tell Miss Lilian I wish to see her. 

and the banker turns to Strebelow once more, and con- 
tinues, in a laughing whisper: “I am not to leave her alone 
with you this evening, for the situation is so strange that she 
would not know what to say. There, now I have told you a 
secret — I have betrayed confidence. 

“ The innocent child says John Strebelow, his face beam- 
ing, as iie watches the door. 

“ You shall find that her ladyship will need a great deal of 
courting before she gets over her coyness,^' says the banker. 

The door opens as the banker speaks, and Lilian enters; but 
it is not the Lilian that entered this room in the early part of 
the evening. That Lilianas heart was overflowing with hope 
and happiness, as she crossed the threshold; this Lilian cross- 
ing it now is a white, despairing woman, who pauses, as she 
enters, to say: 

“ ‘ Courage, poor heart of stone! 

" I will not ask you why. 

Thou canst not understand 
That thou art left forever alone: 

Courage, poor stupid heart of stone.’ ” 

“ My God,*is it Lilian?^^ is the banker’s mental comment, 
as he looks at her nervously. 

“Lilian!” and John Strebelow, his heart in a flutter of 
joy, hurries forward, with both hands extended toward her. 

]S[o smile appears upon her face, that looks cold and inan- 
imate. She looks with sorrowful, frightened eyes from John 
Strebelow to her father, and from* her father back again to 
John Strebelow, and, stepping back from the touch of the ex- 
tended hands, she says: 

“Has my father told you all?” 

“ Yes, Lilian,” says the banker, hurriedly, “ I have told 
John Strebelow all that you said to me.” 

“ And you — you are satisfied with me?” she says, turning 
to John Strebelow, in a half-eager, half-frightened voice. 

“ Satisfied with you! Lilian, 1 love you, and that covers 


54 


THE BAXKEirS DAUGHTER. 


everytiling. It will be the task of my life to -make you 
happy. 

He caught her hands as he spoke, and looked down at the 
white face. She knows that he expects some reply. She tries 
to speak, but she acts as if she is suffocating. 

“ Mr. Westbrook,’^ says Strebelow, in alarm, “ what is the' 
matter with Lilian?’’ 

“ Her youth, her extreme modesty,” says the banker; but 
the words have scarce fallen from his lips, when John Strebe- 
low catches Lilian in his arms, saving: 

“ She is fainting!” 

“ Lay her on the sofa, and I will call her aunt,” says the 
banker; “ the poor child has worked herself up to a state of 
nervous excitement that has proved too much for her;” and he 
hurries from the room, groaning under the weight of a guilty 
conscience. 

Tenderly, as a mother would lay her babe down to rest, 
John Strebelow places Lilian upon the sofa, and kneeling be- 
side her, he chafes her hands. 

“ My darling, my darling,” he says, gazing at the lifeless 
face, “ how often I have prayed that I might some day have 
the privilege of calling you by that name.” 

The banker returns, accompanied by his sister. Mrs. Hol- 
combe sees John Strebelow on his knees beside Lilian, but she 
is so troubled about the young girl that she does not think for 
the moment to associate him with the strange conduct of either 
the banker or his daughter. 

“ She is coming to,” says Strebelow, rising at Mrs. Hol- 
combe’s approach. 

“ Leave her to me,” says Mrs. Holcombe, as she raises Lil- 
ian’s head and puts water to her lips. 

“ Come, Strebelow, we will go to the library.” 

John Strebelow hesitates, and his eyes linger with loving 
anxiety on Lilian, as he says: 

“ Is it only a fainting fit, Mrs. Holcombe?” 

“ I think that is all it is,/’ answers that lady. 

Eeluctantly he turns away and follows the banker from the 
room. 

Lilian opens her eyes and stares at her aunt. 

“ My darling, don’t you know me?” says Mrs. Holcombe, 
bending over her. 

“Yes, aunt.” 

“ Take some more water.” 

“ 1 don’t wish any more; I feel better.” 

“ What made you ‘faint, Lilian?” 


THE EAHKER'S daughter. 


55 


“ 1 — 1 donH know. And she tries to look about the room. 
“ My father and — and John Strebelow were here; where are 
they now?^^ 

“ Tu the library. Why do you ask, dear?"’ 

“i only wanted to know if he was gone. Aunt, I would 
like to sit near the grate; I am cold.^' 

“ Then let me help you over./^ And Mrs. Holcombe as- 
sists her to rise, and putting her arm about her, leads her over 
to an easy-chair before the grate. 

The girl looks steadily at the glowing coals, and Mrs. Hol- 
combe steps behind her chair to wipe away the tears that 
springs to her eyes in spite of all she can do to restrain them. 
Her heart is^ ready to break. The glad, happy girl that she 
has raised from babyhood is gone, and in her place sits a mis- 
erable woman. 

“ Aunt, what did he say when you -told him 1 could see him 
no more?^^ 

She keeps her eyes on the glowing coals as she asks the ques- 
tion in a low, dreary tone. 

Mrs. Holcombe wipes her eyes again and moves around to 
the side of Lilianas chair; but "she scarce knows what reply to 
make. 

“ Don’t be afraid to tell me, aunt,” in the same dreary 
tone, “ 1 can bear anything now.” 

“ Lilian, I could not tell him that you would never see him 
again,” says Mrs. Holcombe, in an imploring voice. “ I told 
him that you were not well enough to see him, and he is to 
call again to-morrow. Lilian, you will see him to-morrow. 
You will tell me what your trouble is — ” 

“ Aunt, I can never see Harold Routledge again, because I 
am the promised wife of another.” 

The words, uttered in a hopeless tone, fall like a thunder- 
bolt on Mrs. Holcombe. 

“ Lilian!” is all that she can say, as she steps back and 
regards her niece with a look of horror. 

“ 1 am going to marry John Strebelow.” 

“ You are going to marry John Strebelow?” 

“ Yes, aunt, I am going to marry John Strebelow. I be- 
lieve he is the man, of all men w'e know, nearest perfection. 
Do you know any reason why I should not marry him?” she 
asks, in a cold, mockiug voice. 

“ Yes, Lilian, 1 do,” says her aunt, softly, as she w^nds her 
arms around her, “ you love Harold Routledge.” 

“ Stop, aunt; never say that again to me, for I must forgot 
that I ever loved Harold Routledge. It is settled that I shall 


56 THE BANKEK^S DAUGHTER. 

marry John Strebelow, and the sooner everybody knows it the 
better. 

“ Lilian, this is outrageous,^ ^ says Mrs. Holcombe. 

“ Perhaps it is, but a great many outrageous things take 
place in this world.'’' 

“ Lilian, how did this come about?" 

“ 1 hardly know, it all happened so suddenly." 
jy When did John Strebelow ask you to be his wife?" 

^ “ Father received a letter from him to-day, asking him for 
his permission to address me as. a suitor. Father sent for me 
— 3 ^ou remember when Lisette told me that my father wanted 
me." 

“Ah, then this is your father’s work. NowJ can under- 
stand his impatience when I spoke to him about you. He 
won’t allow you to marry Harold Koutledge because one of 
New York's wealthiest men has proposed forjrour hand; he is 
forcing you to marry John Strebelow," cries Mrs. Holcombe, 
indignantly. 

“No, aunt; you are wrong. My father is using no force. 
I could marry Harold Eoutledge if I pleased," says Lilian, 
calmly. 

“ Oh, Lilian, 1 can not believe what you say!" 

“You may believe me, aunt. 1 had my choice of Harold 
Eoutledge and John Strebelow, and 1 chose the latter," says 
Lilian, bitterly. 

“ Because your father would disinherit you if you chose the 
former," says Mrs. Holcombe, quickly, remembering her 
brother's words to Mrs. Babbage as he came out of the library. 

“ Disinherit me!" and Lilian smiles derisively. “ You are 
wrong again, aunt: my father used no threats." 

“ Lilian, answer me truly; do you care anything for John 
Strebelow?" 

“You mean, do 1 love John Strebelow?" says Lilian. 

“Yes." 

“ Aunt, you say you believe I love Harold Eoutledge. Can 
we love two men at the same time?" 

“ Lilian, I hardly know what to think. 1 can not under- 
stand this strange affair." 

“ I'll set your mind at rest on one point, aunt; I do not 
love John Strebelow." 

“ Oh^ Lilian, Lilian! and will you be insane enough to 
marry him?" 

“ 1 will marry him like the -sensible girl that 1 am," says 
Lilian, sarcastically. 


THE BAHKER^S DAUGHTER. 


57 


‘‘ "W hy, Lilian — for mercy sake, tell whv yon mean to marry 
John Strebelow?^^ 

“ Why, aunt/" says Lilian, rising, “ bend you head and I 
will tell you/" and Lilian whispers a few sentences in her 
aunt"s ear. 

“ Oh, this is terrible!"" cries Mrs. Holcombe, clasping her 
hands in agony. “ But, Lilian, you must not make this love- 
less marriage, not even to — "" 

“ Hush! don"t mention it! They may be coming back. I 
do not wish to meet him again to-night. &ay to him that I 
have retired, but am feeling much better, and hope to be able 
to receive him to-morrow, if he is pleased to call. Good-night, 
aunt."" 

She is^ gone before her aunt, who is nearly dumb with 
amazement, can reph^ 

“ What an outrage against herself, Harold Routledge, and, 
above all, against that noble gentleman, John Strebelow,"" 
says Aunt Fanny, who is fairly beside herself with grief. 


CHAPTER XL 

■ FLORENCE :MAKES A DISCOVERY. 

“ Lilian, Florence is down-stairs,"" says Mrs. Holcombe, 
coming into Lilian"s boudoir between the hours of ten and 
eleven next morning. “ I told Lisette to tell her that you 
had not been well since yesterday, and that you were now 
sleeping, but she has settled herself to wait until you awake."" 

“ Oh, why did you not let her come up, aunt, in the first 
place?’" 

“ I thought, in your present state of mind, she would annoy 
you."" 

“ Oh, no; -it will be quite a relief to listen to her nonsense. 
Florence spoke the truth when she said I would be the sufferer 
for having a heart."" 

‘^My dear, 1 do not think Florence could act more heart- 
lessly than you are acting. 1 will send her up to you;"" and, 
with a sigh, Mrs. Holcombe leaves Lilian, who sits with a book 
open upon her lap, which she has been trying in vain to read. 

“ Oh, you dear darling!"" says Florence, bursting into the 
room and giving Lilian a kiss. “ They told me. that you were 
dreadful sick."" 

“ Oh, it was nothing; a slight indisposition — "" 

“ It was nothing! Why, Lilian, now that I have had a 
good look at you, you appear like the ghost of yourself, and 


58 


THE BANKEE/S daughter. 


your voice sounds like the wind through the trees in a grave- 
yard. But cheer up, Lilian, for I know what is the matter with 
you, and 1 have brought with me a speedy cure. 

“ Give it to me, doctress,^’ says Lilian, with a faint smile. 

“ Harold Routledge has changed his mind; he is not going 
to Europe.’^ 

“ Oh, I knew that,’^ quietly interrupts Lilian. 

“ You knew that cries Florence, her black eyes open wide 
with surprise. “ Then what is the matter with you?*^ 

“ There is nothing the matter with me now, but 1 was 
iiardly myself last evening,’^ says Lilian, looking straight be- 
fore her. 

“ I think you are hardly yourself now,^^ says Florence, as 
her eyes wander slowly over Lilian. “ There is something — I 
don’t know what — about you. You make me want to pinch 
you to see whether you can feel. G. Washington Plaipps 
called on me last night,” says Florence, rushing in her usual 
manner from one subject to another. “ He accused me of 
making love to old Brown. 1 persuaded him that his accusa- 
tion was false, that it was old Brown who was making love to 
me. As soon as I satisfied him on that point, instead of pro- 
posing, as any man would do, he dropped the^ subject, and 
told me how he had mert Routledge, who had changed his mind 
about going abroad. Was Harold here to let you know?” 

“ 1 believe he answered Aunt Fanny’s letter,” says Lilian, 
in the same quiet voice. 

“ Ah, that is it! Now I know what ails you; there was no 
word for you; the quarrel isn’t made up;” and Florence play- 
fully shakes, her finger in Lilian’s face. 

“ Florence, the quarrel never will be made up, and I assure 
you I have no concern whatever in Harold Routledge’s move- 
ments,” says Lilian, coldly. ^ 

“ Lilian, you take my breath away. Now I will pinch you, 
just to know if you are awake;” and Florence laughingly 
gives Lilian’s arm a pinch that makes her start. “ Live, wom- 
an!” exclaims Florence. “ Perhaps it is sour grapes, Lilian. 
Maybe Harold has not offered to make up. That-is why you 
have no concern whatever in his movements.” 

Lilian shrugs her shoulders. 

“ Florence, why should I be concerned about Harold Rout- 
ledge when I am engaged to be married to John Strebelow?”^ 
No!” and Florence sits upright in her chair and stares af 
Lilian, quite unable to say another word. 

“lam quite in earnest, Florence, when 1 say that 1 am en- 
gaged to John Strebelow. Don’t you approve of the match?” 


THE banker’s daughter. 59 

looking steadily at Florence for the first time since she 
came in. 

“ No, I don’t; I like Harold Eoutledge better than John 
Strebelow. I tell you John Strebelow intimidates me every 
time he looks at me. Of course society will indorse the en- 
gagement. The most brilliant of the season. You’ve carried 
away the first prize, and all that prt of thing. My, won’t it 
create a sensation! for no one ever thought that John Strebe- 
low w^ould marry. Take my advice, Lilian, stand up for your 
rights at once; let him know that you are going to do as you 
please, or there will be no living with that man. He has an 
iron will, and, oh! how frightfully jealous John Strebelow 
could be.” 

“ I think you are wrong in your estimate of John Strebe- 
^ low, Florence. However, it won’t make much difference, as I 
shall never give him cause to be jealous. ” 

“ There, you are biting the dust already! Well,” says 
Florence, with a nod, “let him draw the reins tightly over 
you once, and when you wish to throw o£P the restraint you 
will see whether you can do it. You might, with some men, 
but not with John Strebelow. You say you will not give liim 
cause to be jealous. John Strebelow has a handsome young 
wife — that is cause enough. Just imagine him, Lilian, watch- 
ing Harold Routledge talking soft nonsense to you,” says Flor- 
ence, with a little laugh. 

A red hue overspreads Lilian’s face for a moment, then van- 
ishes, leaving it white as before it came. 

“ Florence, a true wife should allow no man to talk soft 
nonsense to her. ’ ’ 

“ Lilian, you are the queerest girl 1 have ever met. I can’t 
tell where you got your ideas. Your great-grandmother must 
have been resurrected to instill them into your. youthful mind, 
for they certainly do not belong to this generation. When is 
the marriage to take place?” 

“ The day is not yet set, but it isn’t far away. You are 
the first one 1 have told it to, Florence.” 

“ There,” says Florence, giving her a hearty kiss, “ I wish 
you much joy, though you are not looking as if you expected 
much, Lilian.” 

“ My looks have nothing to do with this; haven’t I told you 
that I have not been feeling well?” says Lilian, looking away 
from Florence. 

“ Oh, so you have! I suppose it is going to be a very brill- 
iant affair. Oh, wouldn’t it be nice if .old Brown proposed to 
me at once, and we had a double wedding in the church! We 


60 


THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER. 


have always been such friends, you know, Lilian, that it would 
be just splendid for us to be married together. 

Lilian raises her hands in horror as Florence is speaking. 

\Vhat"s the matter, Lilian?"^ 

“No double marriage for me, Florence, if you are taking 
that hideous old man for a partner. I would not take the 
wealth of Fifth Avenue, and be one of the group before the 
altar. 

“ Not if it were to save you from poverty 

Again the red hue comes over Lilian’s face. Twenty-four 
hours ago would she believe any one that told her she would 
marry John Strebelow? She dilfers from Florence «nly in 
this way: she is fortunate enough to get a younger and hand- 
somer man to bid for her. 

“We are all ready to judge our neighbor, Florence, but 
none of us know what we would do if we were put to the test,” 
she says, wdth a sigh. 

“ I hope you will know when it is to take place, by the time 
I shall come again, which will be to-morrow, about this hour,” 
says Florence, rising. 

^he is anxious to ba off now. She is the only one, outside 
the parties interested, who knows what will soon be “ the 
latest nine-days’ wonder,” and she wishes to get the credit, 
so she must get around among her acquaintances as soon as 
possible. Florence never thought of asking Lilian whether 
she loves John Strebelow, or to make any comments on the 
suddenness of her engagement. Love forms no part of her 
creed, and she thinks it is every girl’s duty to seize a good op- 
portunity when it is offered. The great sensation of this en- 
gagement is John Strebelow, who was booked for an old 
bachelor. 

Florence’s carriage is waiting for her at the banker’s door, 
as she intended going on a shopping expedition. She stops 
for a minute to speak to the coachman. She has given him 
fresh orders; instead of shopping, she is going visiting. Her 
daintily booted foot is on the carriage-step, when she sees 
Harold Koutledge coming up the avenue. Her foot goes back 
to the pavement. 

“ I’ll see how he takes it. I’m sure he cares for Lilian, and 
1 think I’m pretty safe in saying that she is in love with him. 
Here is an opportunity to find out,” she says to herself. 

Another minute, and Harold Routledge is standing before 
her. 

“ Good-morning, Mr. Routledge,” says Florence, all smiles. 


THE banker's HAUGHTER. 


61 


“ Good-morning, Miss Sfe. Vincent; have you been in to see 
Lilian?" 

“ I left her this moment," says Florence, watching his 
face. 

“ds she well? She Was .quite sick when I called last even- 
ing." 

“ Oh, she is well this morning, and she told me something 
that astonished me. She is going to be married," says Flor- 
ence, very confidentially; but her eyes are sparkling witG mis- 
chievous merriment. 

Harold is startled, but it is only for a moment. Lilian told 
Florence she was to be married, meaning to himself. 

“ Is she?" he says, smiling. 

For a time Florence thinks she is wrong. Harold does not 
care for Lilian, and she says; 

“ Yes; perhaps you know to whom." 

“ Perhaps 1 do," he says, smiling again in. a manner that 
provokes Florence. 

“ Well, 1 thought 1 was the only one who ever dreamed 
that he cared for her." 

“ Who cared for her?" says Harold, quickly, the smile 
vanishing from his handsome features. 

“ I thought you knew. John Strebelow. Lilian is to 
marry John Strebelow." 

“John Strebelow! Oh! this is some joke;" and Harold's 
face turns white. 

“ Well, you can just step in and ask her if it is a joke. 1 
have had it from her own lips that she is to marjry John 
Strebelow." 

The brown-stone fronts on the avenue dance about Harold. 
He looks at Florence, and the mischief dies out of her eyes. 

“ Mr. Koutledge," she says, in a frightened tone, “ you are 
not well. 1 am sorry, very sorry, I told you this; but, believe 
me, it is true." 

“It is not true!" he cries, aloud, forgetful of where he is. 
“Lilian never told you^that she was going to marry John 
Strebelow, for she belongs to me;" and turning on his heel, 
he flies up the steps of the banker's house, and gives the bell 
a tremendous peal. 

“ Well, isn't this grand?" says Florence, stepping into her 
carriage and giving the order ^o start. “ 1 knew there was a 
love affair between them. Lilian Westbrook had better not 
preach to me after this. I wonder if there will be a scene?" 


02 


THE banker’s daughter. 


CHAPTEE XII. 

HAROLD’S DESPAIR. 

The door is opened by Lisette, who is attracted by Harold’s 
strange manner the moment he enters the hall. 

“ Say to Miss VVestbrook that 1 am waiting to see her,” he 
says, In a constrained voice, as he walks past the girl toward 
the reception-room, like one trying to conceal his face. 

“ Miss Westbrook is not at home,” answers Lisette, look- 
ing after Har#ld. 

Lisette has answered according to Mrs. Holcombe’s instruc- 
tions, that lady wishing, in some degree, to prepare Harold 
for what she has to tell him. 

Harold turns upon the threshold and looks at Lisette. He 
can not speak at once. His face takes on a paler hue; a look 
of dread appears in his eyes; and if Lisette is observant, she 
can see his bosom rise and fall with suppressed emotion. 

“ Miss Westbrook is not at home?” he says; and fingers of 
ice seem to clutch the young man’s heart. 

“ Ho, sir; but Mrs. Holcombe wishes to see you, if — ” 

“ Let Mrs, Holcombe know that I am here,” says Harold, 
quickly; and turning on his heel, he enters the reception-room 
and walks up and down the floor wfith rapid step. 

This walk, the few minutes in this room that he waits for 
Aunt Fanny, will never -be forgotten by Harold Eoutledge. 
The agony of this short interval, 

“ For sure the greatest evil man can know; 

Bears no proportion to the dread suspense — ” 

will stand out in his life forever. 

“ Oh, God! Florence’s words can not be true, and yet — ” 

He does not finish the sentence that tells so plainly that ho 
doubts. It strikes him now that there was something very 
strange in Lilian refusing to. see him last night. Now he 
thinks— or is it purely imagination *on his part? — that there 
was something strange in Mrs. Holcombe’s manner when she 
was talking to him last evening. Could it be that, piqued at 
his conduct of yesterday, Lilian had engaged herself to John 
Strebelow, and had recalled him only to dismiss him, to pun- 
ish him for giving her up by giving him up in t urn. No, no! 
Lilian was a mischievous sprite, she delighted in teasing him; 
but she was not vindictive, not heartless; she could not stoop 
to such a revenge. 


THE BAKKEE'S daughter. 63 

Mrs. HolcoDibe^s entrance stops this train of thought; the 
lady looks pale and agitated. Harold sees it; he steps for- 
ward; he attempts to speak, but there is a feeling of strangu- 
lation, at his throat. 

Mrs. Holcombe looks at Harold, and she knows he suspects 
that something i^ wrong, if he does not know the whole truth. 
Her heart bleeds for him, and her voice trembles, though she 
struggles to speak naturall 3 \ 

“Good-morning, Harold.^' 

Harold strives to recover his power of speech. When he 
succeeds, instead of returning the lady’s salutation^ he says, 
as he takes a step nearer to her: 

“ Mrs. Holcombe, 1 met Florence St. Vincent a few min- 
utes ago outside this door — ” n 

Mrs. Holcombe^s face turns red and white in turn, and the 
words die away on Harold’s lips. 

“ And Florence told you — ” 

“That Lilian is engaged to John Strebelow. ‘Mrs. Hol- 
combe, is this true?” he cries, in a trembling, passionate 
voice. 

“ Harold, calm yourself,” says the lady, entreatingly. 

“ Mrs. Holcombe, is it true? Answer yes or no.” 

“Yes.” 

“My God!” 

He reels away from her, and the look on Harold Eout- 
ledge’s face will haunt Mrs. Holcombe for many a day. Tears 
stream down the lady’s cheeks, and she approaches him, 
scarce knowing what word of comfort to offer. 

“ Harold — ” she begins, softly; but he waves her off. 

“ Wait, wait,” he says, in a hollow voice; and he turns his 
face from her, and takes a position before the grate. 

He stands looking at the glowing coal, shivering like a leaf, 
his heart a cold, dead weight in his bosom. 

Yesterday he thought himself a miserable man, but there 
was some comfort in the thought that his misery was of his 
own making. He has iiot even that cold comfort to-day. 
But why should he be hopelessly miserable to-day? Bather, 
should he not rejoice that he ha^been saved from a union with 
the girl that could recall him here to inflict this punishment 
upon him? He will tear her false, unfair image from his 
heart this very moment, and never allow heV to cost him a 
thought again. 

“ 1 can not — I can not do that!” he groans aloud, as. if in 
answer to his thoughts. “ Oh, Lilian, Lilian!” 

He clasps his hands in agony, and his body swhys to and 


64 THK banker’s EAUGHTER. 

fro. Apparently he has forgotten thkt Mrs. Holcombe is in 
the room. 

Lilian is lost to him, but he never can cast her from his 
heart. Lilian is the name upon his lips now, and it will be 
the last word that he will utter at the hour of his death. 
Yesterday Lilian promised herself to be henceforth a different 
girl, and to-day she is indeed changed; and so Harold prom- 
ised yesterday, when he received what he called these few 
blessed words from Lilian. He would conquer his temper; 
he would lay aside forever the rashness of his boyhood; he 
would try to be a true man, worthy of the love confided to 
him. Henceforth he would devote himself to Lilian, and to 
his art, that society had wooed him from. And to-day, stand- 
ing before the fire in the Westbrook mansion, Harold is a 
different man. His rash, boyish ways and his boyhood’s 
dreams are things of the past. Like Lilian, he is changed, 
and in a manner he little dreams of. God help them both! 
— the gay,. thoughtless youth and maiden of yesterday — this 
sad, thoughtful man and woman of to-day. 

“ The art that I have neglected is all that I have to live for 
now,” he mutters, and his hands fall heavily at his side. 

He no longer shivers as from the cold. A fire seems to 
have taken possession of his heart and burned its way up to 
his brain. His face is flushed, and in his eyes, that are fixed 
upon the blazing anthracite, is a wild red glare. He starts 
back as he beholds a picture in the fire — or is it in his poor 
whirling brain? He sees two men facing each other with 
crossed swords in deadly combat, and now one lies prone upon 
the ground and the form of a woman bending over him. 

Harold clasps his feverish temples, and a hand touching his 
raised arm makes him start wildly and look about him. 

“ Harold,” says Mrs. Holcombe, pityingly. It was she, 
alarmed at his long silence, that touches his arm. 

“ Am I here yet?” he says, looking about like one in a 
dream.. “ And I thought I saw myself lying there dead, and 
Lilian bending over me;” and his eyes seek the glowing 
coals once more. 

Mrs. Holcombe becomes frightened. 

“ Harold, you are feverish; won’t you be seated?” 

“ No, no; I will be all right again in a few moments. I 
believe 1 fell into a sort of a dream,” he says, in a more 
rational manner. “Good-bye, Mrs. Holcombe;” and he 
steps forward to take that lady’s hand. “ I don’t blame you 
for what she has done.” 

“ Thank God for that!” says Mrs. Holcombe, giving the 


THE banker's daughter. 65 

young, man her hand; “and may you never think, Harold, 
that 1 had any part in this strange affair." 

“ Mrs. Holcombe, Lilian Westbrook will be my curse. 1 
feel it 'here;" and striking his bosom, he turns from her and 
suddenly leaves the room. 

She follows him and attempts to detain him, but she 
reaches the hall only to see the street-door close behind him. 

“ Oh, Lilian, what have you done?" cries Mrs. Holcombe, 
returning to the reception-room, and bursting into a fit of 
tears. 

Later in the day a friend sought Harold Routledgo at his 
lodgings, and received the information that the young man 
had given up his apartments and removed his belongings, 
leaving no word for his friends as to where he was going. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

JOHN STREBELOW'S LOVE. 

Lilian was not aware that Harold had called. When Flor- 
ence left her she received word from her father to join him in 
the library, and she was with the banker while Harold was in 
the reception-room with Mrs. Holcombe. 

“How is my daughter to-day?" said the banker, when 
Lilian appeared before him. 

It was not necessary for him to ask that question, for he 
saw the strange white face, the lips closed so tightly, yet cry- 
ing out so loudly, that the struggle to master her feelings was 
breaking her heart, and there was a look in the beautiful eyes 
that made him turn away his head. 

“ 1 am well — as well as can be expected," she answered, 
pausing and resting her hand on the back of a chair, her eyes 
seeking the floor. 

She did not run to him with the kiss that it was her custom 
to give him at their first meeting of the day. The banker 
felt the omission keenly. He suffered from a twinge of con- 
science, and when he turned and looked at his daughter again, 
his heart was filled with sorrow. 

“ Lilian," he said, advancing toward her with outstretched 
arms, “ won't you kiss me?" 

For a moment she raised her eyes to his face. What a world 
of sadness was in those eyes! She held up her lips to receive 
her father's kiss, then throwing her arms about his neck, she 
cried : 

“ Oh, father, father!" and burying her face on his bosom, 
a tempest of sobs shook her frame. 


66 


THE banker’s daughter. 


“ Don’t, don’t, Lilian; you’ll break my heart if you go on 
in this way.” 

She could not answer him. She sobbed as if her heart were 
indeed breaking. The banker tried to comfort her. He 
patted her on the head and smoothed the rippling golden hair 
with a trembling hand. When the storm of sobs abated, he 
said: 

“My dear child, you shall not marry John Strebelow if it 
makes you so utterly wretched to contemplate it. ’ ’ 

“ Father, what is the use of talking in that strain? I must 
marry John Strebelow. I did not mean to cry, father, but I 
could not help it. There, it is all over now,” she said, as her 
father was about to speak; “ I promise you it won’t happen 
again;” and taking her handkerchief from her pocket, she 
wiped the tear-stains from her face and sunk into a chair to 
hear what more her father had to say. 

“ I sent for you, Lilian, to talk with you on this subject. 
You say you must marry John Strebelow. My daughter, 1 
fear John Strebelow will refuse to enter into this marriage 
when he comes here to-day, if you meet him with that face 
and repeat your cold greeting and fainting fit of last night.” 

“ Father, 'don’t be alarmed; there shall be no more faint- 
ing, no more crying. When Mr. Strebelow comes to-day, I 
will remember that 1 am his promised wife,” said Lilian, ris- 
ing, as if she regarded the interview eoncluded. 

“That is right, Lilian”— and the banker put his arm 
around her with a feeling of relief — “ for 1 did not tell John 
Strebelow that you had any particular aversion to him.” 

“ And I did not ask you to say that to him, father.” 

“ John Strebelow is sure that he can win your heart and 
make you happy, Lilian; if he was not, he would not accept 
your baud.” 

Lilian was silent. 

“ Now don’t you think yourself, Lilian, that your heart 
following your hand will only be a question of a short time?” 

“ Father, we will not talk of that now. 1 respect Mr. 
Strebelow; let that suffice.” 

She spoke in a calm, cold voice, in which there was a tinge 
of command. The banker sighed, for he felt that Lilian was 
no longer the headstrong child to be coaxed by him into his 
way of thinking. It was he that shaped her course yesterday, 
but to-day she plainly shows him that she has taken her 
destiny in her own hands. 

“ When shall the marriage take place?” 


THE banker's daughter. 67 

The banker's voice was constrained, though he tried to 
speak lightly. 

“As soon as you please," Lilian answered. 

“ Well, I think, Lilian, the-sooner it takes place the better, 
under the circumstances," said the banker, toying nervously 
with hi^ watch-chain. 

“ Very well; when Mr. Strebelow calls we shall arrange the 
date," she said, turning to go. 

“ And, Lilian, you are to spare no expense. Yours must 
be one of the grandest weddings — " 

“ Father "—there was entreaty and reproach mingled in 
her voice, as she turned to him— “ must there be a public 
display?" 

The banker winced, and he turned away from the reproach- 
ful eyes, as he answered : 

“ My dear child, the more publicity that is given to your 
marriage with John Strebelow, the greater help it will be to 
me; still — " 

“Then let it be as you desire, father;" she turned away, 
suppressing the sigh that arose to her lips, and was about to 
leave the room when the banker followed her with a quick 
step, and before she reached the door his arm again encircled 
her. 

“ Lilian, do not leave with that despairing face; I tell you 
that you will drive me mad. My dear child, I would rather 
beg from door to door than that you should — " 

“Father, you are unreasonable," she said, quietly, as she 
put her arms around his neck and raised her eyes to his. 
“Only a night has passed since 1 promised to, marry Mr. 
Strebelow; do you think I ought to be myself to-day? If you 
will give me a little time, father, 1 don't think you will have 
much cause to complain." 

“My. darling, forgive me;" and he pressed her to his 
bosom; “ I was not finding fault with you." 

She kissed him, and disengaging herself from his arms, she 
left the room without a word of reply. 

“ I wish it were over," said the banker, throwing himself 
into a chair. “ Until it is I shall not breathe freely. This 
trouble has changed her — positively she is not the same girl. 

I do not fear that she will change her mind, but something 
may happen to prevent the marriage; and if it does, oh. 
Heaven! what is to become of us? Again I say I wish it were 
over. " 

On her way .to her own apartments, Lilian meets Lisette, . 
and pauses a moment to say: 


68 


THE banker’s' daughter. 


Has Mrs. Holcombe gone out, Lisette?” 

“ I don’t know, miss; I have not seen her since I told her 
that Mr. Eoutledge wished to see her. Shall 1 find out — ” 

“ Never mind;” and Lilian grasps the balustrade for sup- 
port. 

Lisette passes on, and Lilian hesitates at the foot of the 
stairs. Harold Ro.utledge in the reception-room I Oh, the tort- 
ure, the struggle of this moment! She can not resist the 
temptation to go to him. Only to see him once more! She 
owes him an explanation. She turns from the stairs and 
takes a step toward the reception-room. She pauses and 
presses her hand upon her heart to stop its tumultuous beat- 
ing, and the next moment the door of the reception-room 
opens, and Mrs. Holcombe, her eyes red from weeping, ap- 
pears before her. The organ that Lilian is trying to quiet 
gives a great bound beneath her hand as she thinks her aunt 
is coming for her — Harold has sent for her. She gives no 
thought now to what the result of an interview with Harold 
might be. She takes a step forward to meet her aunt. 

Mrs. Holcombe, surprised and alarmed at Lilian’s appear- 
ance, hurries to her side, and putting her arm around the 
young girl’s waist, is about to lead her back to the stairs. 

“Aunt Fanny, is Harold—?” she pauses and clutches at 
Aunt Fanny’s arm. 

“ Harold has gone — ” 

“ Gone!” and Lilian covers her face with her hands. 

“ Come upstairs, dear,” says Aunt Fanny, with a gentle 
effort to lead the girl to the steps. 

“ Wait, Aunt Fanny; 1 can go upstairs myself; tell me 
what he said when you told him?” 

She spoke in a hollow whisper, and uncovering her face, 
she looked her aunt in the eyes when she asked the question. 

“ He knew it before I told him, Lilian. He met Florence 
St. Vincent on the steps.” 

“ And what did he say?” 

“ Very little, Lilian. It wasn’t what he said;” and tears 
rolled down Aunt Fanny’s cheek. “ Oh, Lilian, I hope 1 
shall never again see a man suffer as Harold Eoutledge 
suffered to-day. Come, dear, come upstairs.” 

Lilian pushes her aunt’s gentle hand away. 

“ Don’t — don’t touch me! I can go — ” 

She staggers, and would have fallen, but her aunt grasps 
the arm. 



“ Come, dear,” says Mrs. Holcombe, gently; and Lilian 
offers no further resistance. 


THE BAN-KER^S DAUGHTER. 69 

When Aunt Fanny seats her in an easy-chair in her own 
room, she says: 

“ 1 thought he was in the reception-room, and I was going 
to him. Aunt Fanny/^ 

‘‘ Going to him! For what?’^ says Mrs. Holcombe, eagerly. 

“ To see him once more, and explain to him — 

The hopeful look dies out of Mrs. Holcombe ^s face as she 
interrupts her with: 

“ If that is all, my dear, then it is just as well that you did 
not see him. Oh, Lilian, it is not yet too late! If you could 
see Harold as I saw him — 

“Aunt Fanny, do you wish to drive me mad? What is 
done, is done. I must marry John Strebelow.^^ 

“ Then, Lilian, you will surely suffer for your treatment of 
Harold Eoutledge.” 

“ Oh, Aunt Fanny, are you blind ?^^ she cries, in a heart- 
broken voice. “ Don’t you see that I am suffering?” 

“ My own darling, I don’t want to see you suffer. My 
constant prayer will be for your happiness; but, child, a just 
God reigns.” 

“ Aunt Fanny, you are cruel, you are torturing me,” says 
Lilian, turning her face away. 

“ Lilian, you are unjust. You know that I love you too 
well—” 

“ Forgive me,” says the miserable girl, turning to her 
aiftit. “ Kiss me. Aunt Fanny, and leave me, or I shall not 
be able to meet him.” 

“ Gcd help you, Lilian,” says Aunt Fanny, pressing a kiss 
on the young girl’s forehead. 

A few hours later John Strebelow is nearing the banker’s 
house with an elastic step. The afternoon is bright, the air 
is clear and crisp. Is it owing to the sunshine and the crisp 
air that John Strebelow’s step is so springy, that the fine glow 
on his cheek looks warmer, and the light in his dark eyes is 
brighter? Ho, it is neither the air nor the sunshine. 

If happiness has not her seat 
And center in the breast, ’ ’ 

fair weather could not make John Strebelow appear as he does 
at this moment. Jle believes there never was a happier man 
than he has been since last night. The dream of his man- 
hood is nearly realized; we say nearl}^ for it will not be fully 
realized until Lilian is Lilian Strebelow. Lilian his promised 
wife! He can scarce believe it. Last night he lay awake, and 
thought of all the years he had loved her, ever since she was a 


70 THE banker's daughter. 

bright, winsome child nestling her head upon his bosom. People 
who looked upon John Strebelow as a confirmed bachelor lit- 
tle dreamed that he was waiting for a child to be a woman. 
Wasting all the years of his life, perhaps, in waiting; how 
often that thought tantalized him. But all that is passed 
now; Lilian is his promised wife. His heart is singing: 

‘ ‘ Airy, fairy Lilian, 

Flitting, fairy Lilian,” 

as he mounts the steps of the banker's house. He pulls the 
bell, and its peal seems to respond to the joyous singing in his 
heart. Little thinks he that it is a death-knell to the heart 
of her who is waiting for him. 

Lilian is standing before her dressing-table. A vase of deli- 
cate crystal is in her hand 'when her father appears in the 
door- way. 

“ Lilian, John Strebelow has come." 

She does not turn her head, but the banker sees the fright- 
ful pallor of her face in the glass, and the crystal falls from 
her hand and shivers into pieces on the marble top of the 
dressing-case. 

“ I will not keep him waiting long. Where — where shall I 
find him?" 

“He is in the drawing-room. Lilian," and the banker 
steps into the room, “ do you think you can trust yourself?" 

“Yes, yes; 1 will be down directly. " 

The banker leaves the room with a troubled look. Lilian 
turns from her dressing-table, and clasping her hands in a 
despairing manner, she cries: 

“ Oh! Harold, Harold, who is the greater sufferer now?" 

John Strebelow, trembling with joy, listens for Lilian's 
footsteps. The door opens, and she is before him. 

He hurries forward with extended hands. He sees that 
there is no glad smile upon the face so deathly white, but the 
banker explained to him a few moments before that her 
situation is yet so very strange to her, that Lilian is so young 
and inexperienced, and so very modest, that she scarce knows 
how to receive her intended husband. 

“ Lilian," he says, tenderly. 

She gives him her hand, and her eyes seek the carpet. She 
looks the modest maiden that her father represented her now, 
and John Strebelow loves her all the more, because the wom- 
an of the world's tact is wanting. 

“ Lilian," the name trembles on his lips, “ oh, if you only 
knew how happy you have made me, " 


THE BAHKER^S DAUGHTER. 


71 


She looks up at him now, her eyes meeting his, as she says: 

“ Are you truly happy because I have given you — 

She was about to say “ my hand,^^ but before she could get 
those two words out he interrupted, her. 

“ Lilian, you have given me the right to call you mine; and 
believe me, I consider myself the happiest man living to-day, 
my own darling — I may call you that now,^^ he says, fervently; 
and taking her face between his palms he presses a warm kiss 
upon her lips. 

She shivers and tries to draw away from him, but he clasps 
her passionately to his bosom, and thinks that the wide world 
contains at this moment only Lilian and himself. 

“ My darling, I can not tell you how I have hoped and 
prayed for this hour. 

“ 1 never dreamed that you thought of me in any other light 
but that of friendship, Mr. Strebelow.'’^ 

“ Mvi Strebelow,'’^ he says, looking down at her with play- 
ful reproach in his laughing eyes. 

Her face turns crimson now. She tries to utter his Chris- 
tian name, but it will not pass her lips. 

He notes her scarlet face, her confusion, and it fills his heart 
with exquisite pleasure. Her coyness is^ her newest charm, 
and not the least attractive, by far, of all her charms in his 
eyes. 

“ Never mind,^^ he says, in a cheery voice, that puts Lilian 
more at her ease, “ that will come naturally enough to your 
lips by and by. 

And he leads her to a sofa and takes a seat beside her. 

“ And my little girl never dreamed that I was in love with 
her,’^ he says, taking her hand between both of his. “ How 
strange; I thought you or anybody could see that I was in love 
with you. Lilian, I have been a faithful lover to you for years, 
and now 1 have my reward. 

“ It is a poor reward; I am not worthy of such love as yours, 
Mr.— 

“ John,^' he interrupts, laughiugly; but Lilian does not re- 
peat it, and he continues: “ Lilian, if ever again 5 ^ou say that 
you are not worthy of my love, you will offend me. ” 

She looks up at him, and there is something, he can not tell 
what, in the wan face that startles him. 

“ My darling, long ago I made up my mind that you were 
the only woman 1 would ever call my wife.'-’ 

“Believe me," she says, touched by his earnest manner, 
“ the endeavor of my life shall be to make you a true and 
faithful wife." 


72 


THE BAKKER^S DAUGHTER. 

“ My darling, I have not doubted that for one moment. 
With you my happiness will be complete, without you life 
would not be worth living. When a man of my age loves, 
Lilian, it is not child^s play. 

John Strebelow spoke the truth. 

“ Love was to liis impassioned soul 
'Not, as with others, a mere part 
Of his existence, but tlie whole — 

The very life-breath of his heart/’ 

And sitting by his side, with her hand clasped in his, Lilian 
Westbrook knows that in marrying John Strebelow she is com- 
mitting an unpardonable sin against him, for she feels at this 
moment that she can never return his great love for her. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A FASHIONABLE ENGAGEMENT. 

“ Oh, dear, I thought you would never come home, papa! 
1 have glorious news for you. 

Florence St. Vincent dances up to her father with this greet- 
ing, as he comes home from business, one day about a week 
later than the one on which the events of our last chapter 
transpired. 

“You have? what is it?’^ asks Mr. St. Vincent, carelessly. 

Mr. St. Vincent is a president of a life i?isurance company, 
has been rather unfortunate in his business speculations of 
late, and has altogether too much on his mind this evening to 
be particularly interested in his daughter's news. 

“ Perhaps you would just as lief not hear,’^ she says, with 
her ever-ready laugh. 

“ Perhaps,’^ answers her father, as he puts his hat and over- 
coat upon the rack. 

“ You have the blues, 1 know you hare, papa, and I shall 
tell you something that will put them to flight on very short 
notice. 

“ Oh, stop your nonsense!’^ 

“ Positively, papa, the news is an antidote for the blues,'' 
taking her father by the hand, and playfully drawing him into 
the parlor. “ A gentleman was here to-day to see you on 
important business; but, of course, you weren't here." 

“ Who is he? Why didn’t he call down at the office?" 

“ Run after you, indeed!" and Florence, her eyes dancing 
with merirnent, gives her head an indignant toss, and turns 
away from her fathen 


THE BANKEE^S DAUGHTER. 


73 


“'Well, if his business was so very important, who was it— 
do you know?'^ 

“ Do I know?^^ and Florence's laugh rings through the 
room. “ Oh, father," turning to him with clasped hands 
and eyes rolled upward, “ such a nice young man — a perfectly 
charming fellow!" 

“ There, that will do!" thunders Mr. St. Vincent; “ 1 don't 
feel in the humor this evening to listen to your gush. What 
was this charming young fellow's business with me, have you 
any idea?" 

“lam not supposed to have the faintest idea," and Flor- 
ence puckers up her pretty lips, drops her eyelids, and looks 
very demure. 

“ 1 might have known that your wonderful news was a hum- • 
bug. It is high time you had a little common sense, Flor- 
ence," says Mr. St. Vincent, irritably. 

“ There is not a more sensible girl to-day in New York, as 
you will say before you are many hours older, my dear papa." 

“ Yes, very likely I shall say it," and pulling out his watch, 
he says: “ Isn't dinner late this evening?" 

“ Yes, it will be served a little later than usual. Father so. 

I have ordered it. The charming young fellow that was dis- 
appointed in seeing you to-day is coming to dinner. I expect 
him every moment; and such a dinner as I have ordered for 
three." 

“ D — n such — " 

“ Papa, I'm shocked!" and Florence's eyes are laughing as 
the words of reproach fall from her lips. 

“ I can't help it, Florence; it's enough to make a saint 
swear. You know I can not stand such extravagance." 

“ Yes, I know all about it. Now wouldn't you like to have 
me off your hands, papa?" she says, biting her lip to keep 
from laughing, as she looks up in his face, awaiting his reply. 

“Heaven! what a relief it would be!" was his ready an- 
swer; and Florence gives vent to her pent-up laughter. 

Mr. St. Vincent has never been a cross or tyrannical father, 
as his manner this evening might imply. Things have not 
gone exactly right with him of late, and it has made him 
peevish and irritable. He was kind and indulgent — that is, 
Florence never wanted for anything that money could buy; 
and there, seemingly, Mr. St. Vincent thought his duty to- 
ward his child ended". He was never the tender, loving, watch- 
ful parent, yet Mr. St. Vincent would be quite surprised if any 
one told him that he did not love his daughter. If Florence 
is heartless in her Jove affairs, she comes by her lack of senti- 


74 ' THE BAHKER^S DAUGHTER. 

ment rightfully — the same want was always apparent in her 
sire. If, in his speculations of late, he had been fortunate, 
he would have no particular anxiety to get Florence off his 
hand; but as his afiairs stand, he expressed his honest opinion 
when he said: “ Heaven! what a relief it would be.'’^ 

“ Hark, that is the carriage! It is he. How do I look, 
papa?^' 

Florence St. Vincent looks bewitchingly as as waltzes around 
her father. She is dressed in rich dinner costume of deep 
wine-color silk and velvet, with diamonds sparkling at her 
throat and in her blue-black hair. Her father gazes at her 
earnestly, as he says: 

“ Florence, is the nice young man coming to ask me for 
you?^' 

“ What a stupid question! Hidn^t 1 tell you, papa, that I 
wasnH supposed to know anything about this charming young 
fellow^s business here? But you can think what you please. 

“ Florence, is he rich? Eemember, you are poor.^^ 

“He may have enough to keep us comfortably,^^ says Flor- 
ence, demurely. “Ah, the carriage stops at our door. 
Come, papa,’’ and she pulls him over the window, “just peep 
through there,” and she makes a loop in the heavy silken cur- 
tain, to which her father applies his eye. “ ]Now, tell me 
what you think of him as he steps from his carriage. Isn’t 
he charming? Take particular notice of his movements: 

“ ‘ — He walks with an air 
Half autocratic, half dchonair.’ ” 

The father takes particular notice, and starting from the 
window, he says: 

“Florence!” 

Florence laughs until the tears start in her eyes, as she 
watches the expression of doubt, surprise, and joy that chase 
each other on her father’s face as he stands there apparently 
unable .to utter another word. 

The servant has opened the front door when Mr. St. Vin- 
cent finds breath to say : 

“ Florence, do you mean — ” 

“ Hush! give the dear boy your consent, and make mm 
happy.” 

And Florence covers her mouth with her hands to smother 
her laughter, as a servant opens the door and announces: 

“ Mr. Brown.” 

The dear boy that enters is just twenty years older than 
Florence’s father. His face is a mass of wrinkles, the top of 


THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER. 75 

liid head is smooth and shining, his frame is bent, and he 
walks with the assistance of a cane. But Brownes heart is as 
young as it was a half centuiy ago, and he would have you be- 
lieve him as young as his heart, in spite of the wrinkles, the 
shiny pate, the crooked form, and tottering step. His clothes 
are cut in the latest fashion, a bouquet adorns the lapel of his 
coat, and he assumes a jaunty, youthful air, that never fails 
to make an old man look ridiculous. He thinks he is still a 
fascinating beau, this man who has seen his third generation, 
and talks about being engaged in a flirtation with this or that 
beauty, as if, instead of a polished cranium, the down was 
visible on his upper lip. 

“ Oh, Mr. Brown, 1 was about to tell papa, who has just 
come home, that you wished to see him,^' says Florence, giv- 
ing Mr. Brown her hand and assisting him, without pretend- 
ing to do so, to an ottoman. 

“ How do you do, my dear Brown? This is an unexpected 
pleasure, says Mr. St. Vincent, shaking Brown's hand, and 
drawing a chair near the ottoman, seats himself, to play the 
agreeable to the millionaire. 

“ Oh, I'm enjoying splendid health — that is, barring a slight 
attack of the gout." 

“ The gout! I thought you walked rather lame. Do let 
me make you more comfortable," says Florence, solicitiOusly. 

“ Oh, I am very comfortable, thank you. Miss St. Vincent, 
very comfor^ble. " 

“ There, rest your foot on that," says Florence, bringing a 
foot-stool ^ud setting it down before him. 

“ You are very thoughtful. Miss St. Vincent. That is bet- 
ter." 

“ That is one thing 1 will say for Florence, she has every 
one's comfort at heart," says Mr. St. Vincent. 

“ Now, papa, you're flattering me, because we have com- 
pany. Mr. Brown, please pay no attention to it," giving him 
the full benefit of her sparkling dark eyes. 

“ What your father says is not flattery. Miss St. Vincent," 
says Brown. 

“ Now, Mr. Brown, 1 know you are a flatterer," says Flor- 
ence, laughing, and playfully shaking her finger at him. 
“ Ah, I was nearly forgetting! You told me, to-day, that you 
had important business with papa; if you wish to talk it oyer 
before dinner 1 will leave you; but I give you this warning, 
dinner is ready, and it will not improve by standing." 

“ Don't go, my dear Miss St. Vincent. 'When I have a favor 
to ask of a man I always wait until he has eaten his dinner, 


7f) THE EANKER^S EAUGHTER. 

then he is in better humor to grant it — isnH it so, St. Vin- 
cent.^"' 

“ You are right, my dear Brown; but if you have a favor 
to ask of me, remember it is already granted, if it is in my 
power to do so. 

“ Well, that is encouraging, and it^s only encouragement I 
want from you, St. Vincent,'^ says the retired millionaire, with 
a fascinating side glance at Florence which makes that young 
lady blush beautifully and cast her eyes downward. 

At dinner Mr. Brown notes every word and action of Flor- 
ence, though he pretends not to be particularly observant; 
but Florence sees through the old gentleman, and behaves ac- 
cordingly; and he thinks there never was such a daughter, 
and a good daughter usually makes a good v/ife. 

“My dear, we will join you presently in the drawing-, 
room,'^ says Mr. St. Vincent to Florence, when dinner is over. 

“ You won^t stay long?’’ 

Florence speaks to her father, but. looks entreatingly at Mr. 
Brown, and she thinks, as she leaves the dining-room, if that 
look doesn’t bring the old gentleman to the point there is 
nothing left for her to do but to wait until leap year and pro- 
pose herself. 

That look was the finishing stroke. If Florence only knew 
how old Brown’s young heart jumped. And during the fifty 
years of hisdove-making he nera thought himself such a lady- 
killer as he did at that moment. 

“ Well, old fellow,” he says, clearing him throat^and plung- 
ing into the subject that caused such agitation in the region 
near his left side, “ I came hero this evening, as ^ have al- 
ready told you, to ask a great favor at your hands.” 

“ Name it, my friend,” says St. Vincent, as the millionaire 
cleared his throat again. 

“ St. Vincent, I love your daughter, and I have every rea- 
son to believe that she loves me.” 

“Brown, I’m astonished!” cries Mr. St. Vincent. 

“ Why! where have your eyes been? Where have your ears 
been? Everybody thinks it is only a little flirtation on my 
part, but it is nothing of the kind, St. Vincent. I assure you 
my intentions have been sincere from the beginning, and 1 
have come here this evening to ask Miss St. Vincent to be my 
wife, if the suit meets with your approval.” 

“ Brown, you have my approval. I am as delighted as I 
am surprised;” and the old gentlemen indulged in a hearty 
shake hands. 

“ Thank you, thank you, St, Vincent; and now I wish you 


THE BANKER'S DAUGHTER. 

to advise me as if I were your own son; I always like to look 
to an older head for advice.^' 

“ My son! He's old enough to be my father," thinks St. 
Vincent; but he says: 

“ Certainly, certainly. Believe me. Brown, you honor me 
by seeking my daughter's hand; but," says St. Vincent, 
slowly, “ something may stand in the way of this union." • 

" If your daughter loves me, and I love her, and we have 
your consent, what can stand in the way of it?" says Brown, 
excitedly. 

“ Your relatives, your children, may ojffer some serious ob- 
jections. My friend, as Florence's father and your adviser, I 
am bound to point this out to you." 

“ St. Vincent, my children can not control my actions. One 
would think 1 had got beyond that period in life when 1 
was capable of managing my own affairs. I'm not an old 
imbecile." 

“ My dear Brown, I did not mean to insinuate such a thing, 
but you know grown children usually make a fuss when the 
parent contemplates a second marriage, and 1 am in duty 
bound to look out for my child's — " 

“ St. Vincent, don't let that bother yon. 1 have thought 
the whole thing over. 1 shall have an amicable settlement 
with mychildi’fen before the wedding-day. I promise you that 
you will be satisfied with every particular, or you can with- 
draw your consent." 

And so it is settled. An hour later Mr. St. Vincent, after 
seeing that his future son-in-law is comfortable in his carriage, 
returns to the drawing-room to find his daughter dancing 
about in a state of ecstasy. He looks at her earnestly for some 
moments. Perhaps the warm hue of her dress and the sparkle 
of the diamonds enhance the bewitching beauty of the dark 
face. Her father thinks he never saw her look as handsome 
as she does to-night. 

"A beautiful picture; no wonder it has brought a good 
price," he sa 3 ^s to himself. 

“ Florence, are you really as happy, as you look?" he says; 
and a sigh escapes his lip. 

She trips over to him, and standing on tiptoe, takes his 
face between her palms and draws it down close to her own. 

“ Papa, why in the world shouldn't I be as happy as I look? 
Do you know any girl in this metropolis to-night that would 
not be in raptures over the contemplation of the possession of 
millions?" 

“ But Brown is so old. I'm glad you are to marry him, 


7S . THE BAHKER^S DAUGHTER. 

rioreiice, but you are too young and too handsome for him, 
all the same.’’ 

' “ Papa, he is the door-way to independence, and what more 

could any girl ask than independence, with millions at her 
command?” 

“ It is well, under the circumstances, that this is your way 
of thinking.” 

Here a servant enters with a card for Florence, and on it is 
inscribed the name of G. Washington Phipps. 

“ Oh!” and with the exclamation a strange little sensation 
passes over Florence. 

“ Who is it?” asks her father. 

“ Mr. Phipps,” she answers, and turning to the-servant, she 
says: “ 1 will see the gentleman.” 

“ I have a little business to attend to, so I shall leave you 
to entertain your friend;” and her father leaves the room. 

“Oh, my, what makes me feel so strange? 1 — I wish 
Phipps had Brown’s money. It never rains but it pours; per- 
haps 1 shall have another proposal to-night. I believe Phipps 
loves me. I suppose he will make an awful scene when I tell 
him — ” 

The announcement of Mr. Phipps ends her soliloquy. 

“ Good-evening, Florence.” Phipps looks around the room 
as if he expected to see some one besides Florence. 

“ Good -evening, Mr. Phipps;” and, placing a chair for the 
gentleman, she seats herself, with an audible sigh, at a little 
distance. 

“ I thought I would meet old Brown here,” he says, look- 
ing around as if he expected the old gentleman to pop out of 
some corner. “ Heard he was to be here; you know I hear 
most everything.” 

“ Old Brown!” says Florence, somewhat netted. “ That 
isn’t very respectful, to say the least, Mr. Phipps.” 

“ Well, he’s not young, Florence; he has a sou just four- 
teen years and six months older than I am,” he says, in a 
manner laughable to listen to on account of its earnestness; 
“ but this isn’t to the point. I didn’t mean to begin by abus- 
ing Brown. Do you know, Florence, that everybody is talk- 
ing about you and the old gentleman?” 

“ What can everybody be saying?” asks Florence-, with eyes 
open wide with astonishment. 

“ They say he is making love to you, and that you are en-' 
couraging him. I am tired contradicting it — ” 

“ But why do you contradict it?” 

“ Because I know it isn’t true.” 




THE BAITKER^S DAUGHTER. TO 

“ But it is true,'’^ says Florence, innocently. 

“ It is true?^^ and Mr. Phipps rises abruptly. 

“ Yes, Mr. Phipps; I am engaged to be married to Mr. 
Brown and she looks up at him shyly. 

He does not speak at once, but thrusting his hands deep in 
his pockets he returns lier shy look in a manner that makes 
her wince. There is not much sentiment about Phipps, but 
he knows as he stands there that he loves the girl before him, 
and she has given his honest heart a stab that he will not soon 
recover, though no one, not even Florence, will be the wiser 
for it. 

“ Do you really mean what you have said, Florence?’^ 

She bows her head. 

“ Then I have nothing more to say, and I bid you good' 
evening. ' 

For a moment Florence is too surprised to speak, then she 
springs from her chair and cries: 

“ Mr. Phippsr^ 

He turned on the threshold. 

“ Are you angry with me?’^ 

It is a very penitent face that is turned to him, and the id 
ment he sees it he is sorry for its owner. Why should he be 
angry with her? Why should he find fault with what she had 
done? He had never asked her to be his wife, never taken any 
mortgage on the Iieart that she had sold to another. She is 
doing herself more injury than she has done him, and she will 
one day be the greater sufferer. From his heart he pities her 
as he says, hurrying toward her: 

I^m not angry with 3^ou, Florence." Why should I be? 
Good-bye.” . 

He snatches her hand, and wrings it with much feeling, but 
very ungracefully, and is off before Florence can realize it. 

“Well, what an idea!” she cries, her lips trembling, her 
bosom heaving. “ Instead of stamping up and down, tearing 
his hair out by the roots, threatening to shoot old Brown, or 
himself, or do something to create a sensation, he must go off 
in that cool manner. I don’t believe he ever loved me, and 
I do — I do care just a little for him;” and Florence takes out 
her handkerchief and wipes away the tear-drop that glistens in 
her eye. 


80 


THE BAHKER^S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XV. 



THE WEDDIHG-EVE. 

‘ ‘ Six weeks to-day since you told me that you were en- 
gaged, and to-morrow will be your wedding-day. 1 canH real- 
ize it, Lilian. How ever you managed to get everything ready 
in so short a time — and your trousseau is just perfect — will'for- 
ever remain a mystery to me,^^ says Florence, when she has 
finished an examination of Lilian’s wedding outfit. 

The trousseau covers the bed, sofa, table, chairs, and every 
article of furniture upon which anything can be laid out for 
display, in Lilian’s apartments, with .the exception of a few 
chairs in the boudoir, which are reserved for their proper use. 
Lilian looks on quietly, while Florence goes into raptures 
over every piece. 

‘‘ Oh, dear! I wish I were ready. Wouldn’t it be splendid, 
Lilian, if I could be married to-morrow?” 

Lilian is staring vacantly through the window opposite where 
sne is sitting, as she answers: 

“ Do you think so, Florence?” 

“Do 1 think so? What is the matter with you, Lilian 
Westbrook?” 

“ I can not reconcile myself to the belief* that you are going 
to marry that old man, Florence. I am in hopes yet that you 
will change your mind before the wedding-day.” 

“Don’t cherish such hopes, my dear girl, or you will be 
doomed to a grand disappointment; and let me tell you 
that old Brown is a much more desirable party than John 
Strebelow. Father, being in the life insurance business, has 
these things down fine, you know; and he says that the average 
of life after seventy is five years. Give Brown ten years, and 
then I’ll be only twenty-eight. Think of it, Lilian, a widow 
of twenty-eight with millions at her command!” says Flor- 
ence, with the utmost enthusiasm. 

“ And does your father really sanction this marriage, Flor- 
ence?” 

“ My father is delighted, and why shouldn’t he be? It isn’t 
every man, Lilian, that has a son-in-law old enough to be his 
father-in-law. Just think of it! When the words are said 
that makes me Brown’s wife. I’ll be a grandmother, have a 
son of thirty-eight, and a granddaughter older than myself ;” 
and Florence laughs until the tears roll down her cheeks, 
“ Kow, Lilian, don’t you think it is a capital joke?” 


THE banker’s daughter. 81 

It is very evident to Lilian that FJorence regards it as a good 
joke. The sad blue eyes are fixed on the bright, laughing face 
as she says: 

“ It is the most serious step inwall your life, Florence; how 
can you turn it into a joke?’' 

“ Better to laugh than to look blue. What is the use of 
crying over the inevitable?” 

“ Were you ever in love, Florence?” says Lilian, earnestly. 

“1 don’t know,” answers Florence, with a long-drawn 
sigh, though her eyes are laughing. “ Tell me how one feels 
when one is in love, Lilian.” 

“ That is something that I could not explain — ” 

“ You can not explain, when you have been in love so many 
times?” interrupts Florence, in innocent surprise. 

“ So many times? 1 do not understand you, Florence.” 

“ You don’t understand me when 1 say that you have been 
in love so many times? Lilian Westbrook, not two months 
ago you were in love with Harold Routledge, to-morrow you 
are to marry John Strebelow. Now, if you did not pi each so 
much against giving the hand without the heart, marrying for 
money, and ail that sort of thing, I would say that your mar- 
riage is as thoroughly fashionable as my own. But I know 
that my friend would not preach one thing and practice an- 
other, and 1 can only think that she has been in love* twice in 
as many months,” says Florence, a triumphant light in her 
laughing eyes as she notes the two red spots on Lilian’s 
cheeks. 

“ Who told you that 1 was in love with Harold Routledge?” 
says Lilian, vainly trying to speak indifferently. 

“ My own eyes told me, Lilian.” 

“ Rather your imagination, Florence, or your craving for a 
sensation — ” 

“Nothing of the kind,” interrupts Florence. “ My eyes 
told me what Harold Routledge himself made no secret of to 
his friends; and 1 shall never forget how he looked the day I 
met him at this door and told him you were engaged to be 
married. People will not come here and tell you what they 
think, but everybody is talking about Harold Routledge’s dis- 
appearance, and says that you are the cause of it. What have 
you to say to that charge?” 

“ Nothing,” says Lilian, with a shrug of her shoulders. 

“ Oh, that mdifference is put on; or was winning the poor 
artist’s heart only pastime for the banker’s daughter?” 

“ Florence,” says Lilian, with a look of annoyance, “ your 
subject is distasteful to me.” 


82 


THE BAKKEll^S HAUGHjrER. 

“ Kemorse, remorse!^’ cpes Florence, striking a tragic at- 
titude. “ It is no wonder that you talk and act so strangely 
since your engagement with John Strebelow, for you think you 
may have been the cause of Harold^s death. Oh, Lilian West- 
brook! 

“ ‘ There stands a specter in your hall; 

The guilt -of blood is at your door; 

You changed a wholesome heart to gall; 

You held your coui'se without remorse, 

To make him trust his modest worth; 

And, last, you fixed a vacant stare, 

And slew him with your noble birth. ’ ’ ’ 

Lilian rose indignantly, and walked over to the window, 
while Florence was giving vent to Tennyson. 

“ Now I have made you angry, says Florence, gayly laugh- 
ing as she follows Lilian, and puts her arm around her waist. 

“ You are talking such sheer nonsense, Florence,^^ says Lil- 
ian, coldly. 

“ AVell, then, ITl believe that you were not coquetting with 
Routledge. We women, thank Heaven, are privileged to 
change our minds. I suppose you could truly love Harold 
two months ago, and love John Strebelow to-day. There, 
now that I’ve succeeded in making you angry, ITl go;” and 
Florence gives her a hearty kiss. “ And as I take my departure, 
ITl give you a bit of advice: don’t bring that face that you 
have been wearing for the past few weeks into church with you 
to-morrow, or I k^now one of your bride-maids — modesty for- 
bids my mentioning the name — that will outshine you?” and 
the giddy beauty takes her leave with a gay little laugh. 

“ 1 think she will not preach to me again in a hurry. 1 
knew that she was in love with Harold, and 1 can’t under- 
stand why she is marrying John Strebelow. I think she and 
Harold quarreled that day it was reported he was going to 
Europe, and he returned to her to make up, that morning I 
met him, which, of course, was too late. I think it is real 
anean that she doesn’t tell me all about it. I wouldn’t have a 
secret from her. Yes, I would. ITl never tell her or any- 
body else that I’m not quite as happy as I thought 1 would be. 
Oh, dear! I wish I could stop thinking of Phipps!” concludes 
Florence, in her own mind, as she leaves the banker’s house. 

Lilian turns from the window when the door closes after 
Florence. She thought her poor heart would burst while she 
listened to the careless girl’s words. 

“ John Strebelovv must not see me wear this miserable face, 
that Florence has harped upon, on my wedding-eve, and — 


THE BAKKEH^S DAUGHTEB. 


83 


Ob, God! how can I look otherwise than liiiserable?’^ she 
moans, as she presses her hand over her heart, and walks up 
and down the room. “1 thought I tried hard enough to 
mask my heart, but my efforts are in vain, when light, shal- 
low Florence St. Vincent says that I am sadly changed. Oh, 
this suspense is killing me! If I knew that he is well — if I 
could hear some Word of him. Oh, Harold, Harold!'^ and 
falling on her knees, she raises her clasped hands to heaven. 
“ Oh, God! be merciful; save him. Let me suffer; but look 
down upon him this day, and send him peace — peace that 
shall lead to happiness and she buries her face in her hands, 
but no tear falls from her burning eyes. 

Heaven pity Lilian and Florence, unlike, yet alike, for each 
is sacrificing herself on the altar of Mammon — each turning 
her face forever ffrom love and happiness. 

“ And the whole of two lives, yet in their spring, 

Are utterly changed forever and aye.” 

A low, leaden sky hung over the "city all the day, and with 
the darkness of night came the storm it betokened — a whirl- 
ing, blinding snow-storm that lasts about an hour, then the 
wind subsides, the snow melts as it falls, and finally turns into 
a heavy rain. 

“ The storm may keep him away,^^ Lilian is saying to her- 
self, when Lisette comes in and says that John Strebelow is 
below. 

Lilian looks at herself in the glass. She has tried all the 
evening to appear cheerful, but she turns from the mirror with 
a look of disgust, as she thinks of the bright, happy face that 
mirror reflected a few weeks ago. 

“ I did not think you would venture out in this storm, she 
says, when she enters the drawing-room and John Strebelow 
comes forward to. meet here. 

“ Could there come a storm to-night that would keep me 
away?"^ he says, taking her in his arms and kissing her. 
“ Since I have been coming here regularly, once in every 
twenty-four hours, I heed not the storms; indeed, I scarce 
know it is wintery weather. To me 

“ ‘ There never was summer so bright as this,- 

And the world will always be burnished thus; 

For, if Love the magical painter is. 

He forever will paint the same for us.’ ” 

She trembles as she looks up in his face — a face lighted with 
the warm tints of love, and his soul is shining from the eyes 
that look down into hers. She wishes to say something to 


84 


THE banker’s daughter. 


him, but instead of giving the something utterance, she stands 
there trembling, and he says, as he lays her head against his 
bosom: 

“ You said that 1 might come to-night, and I could not stay 
away. I longed to see you once more before we should meet, 
please God, never to part again. Oh, my darling!'’ and he 
presses her closer to his heart, “ when I think of to-morrow, 
peace and happiness come upon me such as I never knew be- 
fore. ” 

“ And you have not a single fear for the future?” she says, 
v/ithout raising her head from his bosom. “ If this storm does 
not pass away before morning, don't you know it will be an 
evil omen?” 

“ No, 1 do not know it, niy superstitious little darling. The 
strifes and storms of the world shall be nothing to us; for, 
dearest: 

“ ‘ ’Tis the light •within that illumines the land, 

And free as birds from sorrow and strife, 

Very close together, and hand in hand, 

We shall walk on through unlimited life.’ ” 

He stroked her hair as be spoke, and held her close to his 
heart, whose throbbings she so plainly heard, and she thought: 

“A strong man’s heart beats only for me. 

Only for me, while it answers life’s call.” 

Was it his beautiful words, or the touch of his hand, or the 
throbbing of his heart, that sent a peaceful feeling over her? 

“ Are you sure,” she says, looking up in his face with an 
expression that came home to him years later, “ that you will 
never regret this hasty marriage?” 

“ Lilian, what do you mean?” he says, looking down at her 
with an amused smile. 

“ Oh, 1 mean that you must be disappointed in me,” she 
says, with more feeling than she has shown since her engage- 
ment; “and,- if you are— if you are not fully satisfied with 
me now — do not let the ceremony take place to-morrow.” 

“ Lilian, what are you talking about?” he says, in a voice 
of concern. “ Have 1 ever showed by word or look that 1 am 
dissatisfied with you ? My own darling, I would not have you 
a whit different from what you are.” And his voice trembled 
with emotion. 

“ Oh, John, I make you such a poor return for the bound- 
less love that you bestow upon me. Can you always be satis- 
fied with me?” 

It was the first time she had called him by the name of 


THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER. 85 

John. How he had longed fco hear her utter it! A cry o^ joy 
escapes him, and he presses her to his heart once more. 

“ You say that my love is boundless, and then ask me if I 
can be satisfied with you always. My darling, never find 
fault with yourself again in my presence. '' 

“ God help me to do my duty henceforth by this man, who 
is as far above me as the stars are above earth, is Liliana’s 
prayer when John Strebelow is gone. “ 1 know he is the bet- 
ter man — why could 1 not have loved him — but who can di- 
rect love? If 1 only knew that Harold was safe 1 might be 
more reconciled to my fate. Where can he be to-night?’^ 

And she thinks no more of the one that she was compelled 
to confess was the better man, but sinks to sleep upon her 
wedding eve with Harold’s name upon her lips. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

“ LOOK TO YOUR WIFE!” 

The eventful day is here at last, and a more glorious winter 
day was never seen. Not a trace of last night’s storm. A 
beautiful day for the Strebelow-Westbrook nuptials, say the in- 
numerable friends of the bride and groom, who prepare at an 
early hour to go to the church, so that they may secure a good 
seat. The event has created an unusual stir in fashionable 
society, and as grand a wedding as New York ever saw is ex- 
pected. 

The bride-elect, seemingly unconscious of what an object of 
admiration and envy she is to-day, sits in her boudoir before 
the grate, with her tiny slippered feet upon the fender, wait- 
ing for Aunt Fanny to come and tell her it is time to dress.- 
The blazing grate-fire, and the auspicious sunshine streaming 
through the window, fail to impart any warmth to Lilian. 
She awoke this morning with a dull pain at her heart, and 
with such a feeling of oppression that the very air she breathed 
seemed to stifle her. She tried her best to throw this feeling 
off, but to no purpose. The thought of all the people she 
shall have to encounter in the church is torture to her. Can 
she hide her secret from the world to-day? 

“ I must; the world shall not know,” she says, rising from 
her chair and walking the floor. 

She has been walking some minutes when she hears a light 
footstep without, and she hurriedly takes her place again be- 
fore the fire. She has hardly time to be seated before her 
aunt enters. 


86 


THE JiAKKEll^S DAUGHTER. 

“ Come, Lilian, it is time you were being dressed,’’ says 
that lady, assuming a gayety she does not feel, as she walks 
over to Lilian’s side and puts her arm about her. 

I am ready,” she says, uttering the words as a criminal 
might upon whom the sentence of death was about to be exe- 
cuted. 

Her aunt caught sight of the deathly white face. 

“ Now you must keep up your courage, my dear,” she says, 
pretending not to be alarmed. “ You know the marriage 
ceremony is always a trying ordeal.” 

“ I think I shall survive it, Aunt Fanny. I know you' 
think that in my case the ceremony will be unusually trying; 
but give it a moment’s thought, and tell me wherein my case 
differs from that of every ninety-nine women out of a hun- 
dred. 

“ ‘ Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed. 

Time rules us all; and life, indeed, is not 
The thing we planned it out ere hope was dead. 

And then, we women can not choose our lot. ’ . 

CalJ Lisette, and let us begin this business of dressing.” 

She walks into her dressing-room as she speaks, and Aunt 
Fanny, who can not reply to her, steps to the bell and rings 
for Lisette. 

Lisette, assisted by Mrs. Holcombe, decks Lilian in her 
bridal robes. There is no word spoken, save that which passes 
between Mrs. Holcombe and Lisette, and all the while the 
suffocating feeling is growing upon Lilian. At last the agony 
of dressing is over, and words fail to describe the fair girl’s 
loveliness, in her dress of lusterless creamy-white silk, with 
its elegant garniture of point and Honiton, the misty bridal 
veil, and wreath of orange-blossoms. 

“ You can go now, Lisette,” says Mrs. Holcombe. 

‘‘My darling, look at yourself,” says Mrs. Holcombe, 
pointing to the mirror, as Lisette leaves the room. 

“ My dress is handsome,” she says, with an air of indiffer- 
ence. “ Is it near time to go. Aunt Fanny?” 

“ There is very little time to spare. Your father wishes to 
see you; and your bride-maids, especially Florence, are dying 
of impatience. Shall I send your father up first?” 

“ Yes; and when he leaves me you can bring up the rest.” 

Lawrence Westbrook loses no time in going to his daugh- 
ter. He opens the door of her boudoir with a trembling hand, 
and he pauses on the threshold as he catches sight of her 
within her dressing-room. Pain and pride take possession of 
his heart as he watches her. 


THE banker’s daughter. 


87 


“ Stiller than cliisel’d marble, standing there, 

A daughter of the gods, divinly tall. 

And most, divinely fair. ” 

He crosses the room with a hurried, noisy step, to attract 
her attention, and she turns slowly to meet him. 

“ My darling daughter,” he says, “ 1 never saw you look- 
ing so beautiful. ” 

“ Father,” she says, reaching out her hands to him, “ I 
wish it was over. I have a terrible feeling here;” and she 
lays one hand upon her heart. 

“ My child,” says the banker, with a feeling of alarm, ” it 
will be all over in a very short t^me. Do not let your cour- 
age fail you now.” 

“ Then see that there is no delay; that-— that nothing hap- 
pens. ” 

“ There will be no delay, my darling.” 

“ Kiss me, father; and— and you will miss me just a little, 
won’t you?” 

“ My child, I will miss you very much while you ^re away 
on your wedding-trip; but I will hav-e the sweet consolation 
of knowing that you have been spared — ” 

“ Father, don’t talk about from what I have been spared. 
Let Aunt Fanny and the girls come up now.” 

“ Oh, Heaven! I wish it were over,” says the banker, for 
the hundredth time, as ho hurries from his daughter’s room. 

Lilian forces herself to smile when her bride-maids, six in 
number, file into the room, Florence, as a matter of course, 
taking the lead. She is voluminous in her praise of Lilian’s 
appearance, at the same time wondering if she couldn’t im- 
prove upon it for herself. 

“ Oh, Aunt Fanny ! 1 am sure something is going to hap- 
pen;' that is the feeling I have here,” says Lilian, in a whis- 
per, clutching her aunt’s arm with one hand and pressing the 
other against her silken bodice, as she is about to follow her 
bride-maids out of the room. 

“My child, you are laboring under intense excitement; 
that is why you have that presentiment. What can hap- 
pen?” she says, cheeringly. 

Aunt Fanny could not prevent this marriage, so she thinks 
it her duty to accept graciously what is inevitable to-day, and 
encourage Lilian, instead of .adding to the young girl’s trouble 
by showing her displeasure. 

The church of to-day, like the temple of old, is made a 
place of exchange — oh, for the scourge of the Master here! — 
and the large, imj)osing structure on Fifth Avenue is uncom- 


88 


THE banker’s DAEGHTER. 


fortably filled with the elite of the Empire City, who have 
come to witness Lilian Westbrook barter her heart for John 
Strebelow’s millions. Mendelssohn’s happy wedding-march 
breaks forth from the grand organ with a joyous crash, and a 
flutter runs through the vast assemblage as the bridal-party 
enters the church. 

“ V\’’ell, who wouldn’t give Harold Routledge the mitten 
for such a man as John Strebelow,” says more than one of 
Lilian’s friends, “ even were both men endowed with equal 
wealth?” 

The groom is justly entitled to these comments, for never 
did a handsomer, and, what is better, a nobler man stand be- 
fore God’s altar. 

Every one notices that the bride is extremely pale, but 
there is nothing unusual about that, a bride is expected to 
look pale. The marriage ceremony begins, and the clergy- 
man’s words resound through the church. 

“ If any man can show just cause why they may not be law- 
fully joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for- 
ever hold his peace. ” 

Lilian thinks hours are pressed into the few moments’ 
silence that follows, she feels as if she will die in want of a 
breath of air, and she leans heavily against Florence, who 
stands next to her, as the clergyman proceeds with the cere- 
mony. John Strebelow utters his response in a clear, firm 
voice, but Lilian scarce bends her head in affirmation. 

Thank Heaven, it is over at last! She breathes more free- 
ly as friends press about her with their congratulations. The 
ceremony is over, and nothing has happened. 

“ My darling wife,” John Strebelow whispers, as he draws 
Lilian’s arm within his own, and followed by friends and rela- 
tives, -leads her out of church. 

There is one who witnessed the marriage ceremony waiting 
in the vestibule to tender his congratulations. Pale as Lilian 
herself, he stands leaning against a stone pillar. The bride 
is the first to see him. Their eyes meet. She starts back, 
her breath leaving her for a moment. At that moment John 
Strebelow’s eyes fall upon the man, and in his surprise he docs 
not notice the involuntary start of his bride. 

“ Harold Routledge,” cries the groom, holding out his 
hand, and the same moment Lawrence Westbrook snatches 
his daughter from his arm, and it was well he did, or John 
Strebelow would have heard the faint cry: “ Harold, forgive 
me!” as she fainted in her father’s arms. 

Strebelow, look to your wife! she has fainted,” says Har- 


THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER. 89 

old Routledge, as he held for an instant the hand that was 
offered him, and then disappeared in the throng. 

John Strebelow, full of alarm, instantly forgets Harold 
Routledge and his wild looks as he turns to his fainting bride. 

“ Lilian fainted! I did not feel her slip from my arm. I 
thought she turned to speak — ” 

“ Never mind it, John; fresh air is all she wants. There, 
she is coming to; she will be able to go to her carriage in a 
moment,^^ says her father. 

What made the bride faint? All that saw Harold Rout- 
ledge thought they could answer that question. Yes, every 
one could guess what ailed the bride — every one but the one 
most interested, the husband. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

AFTER FIVE YEARS. 

The weather is delightful, and the scene is one that can be 
witnessed any fine afternoon in Paris about four o’clock. The 
Champs Elysees is thronged. Vehicles of every description, 
horsemen and horsewomen, most of them on their way to the 
aristocratic afternoon resort, the Bois de Boulogne, and gayly 
dressed pedestrians, make up the throng which represents all 
classes who have any pretensions to rank, wealth, or style. 

Two gentlemen, decidedly French— one we recognize at 
once, his wiry form, thin, sallow visage and vindictive black 
eyes could not be easily forgotten — are strolling along as if 
their only aim is an afternoon walk. 

Mon Dieu cries one, as a horsewoman, with her at- 
tendant, suddenly dashes by, “ how madame keeps her saddle. 
Look, quick, De Carojae! isn’t it magnificent?” 

The Count de Carojae is used to the bursts of enthusiasm 
from his friend, Louis Moiitvillais, and he obeys the call to bo 
quick so leisurely that the horsewoman is away in the distance 
before his eyes are upon her; but when he catches a glimpse 
of her, he drops his indifferent manner and strains his eyes to 
keep her in sight. When he can see her no more, he says: 

“ 1 am sorry that 1 did not look up sooner.” 

“ Did you ever see anything like it?” says Montvillais, witli 
his accustomed earnestness. 

“ Yes,” says the count, who has fallen into a thoughtful 
mood; “ once before to-day, and it carries me back to 
America.” 

” Where you left your heart more than five years ago,” 
laughs Louis. 


90 


THE banker’s daughter. 


The count’s reply is a significant shrug of his shoulders. 

“You’ve not been the same man since. Come, tell us 
about it, De Oarojae. Did the magnificent equestrienne re- 
mind you of the fair one across the water?” 

“ Very much,” says the count, drawing a deep breath to 
conceal a sigh. “ 1 wish 1 had seen her face. Did you 
catch a glimpse of it, Louis?” 

“ No; but she had beautiful golden hair.” 

“ So had Mademoiselle Westbrook.” 

“ Ah, Westbrook is the fair one’s name!” cries Louis. 

“ It was her name; but I hear she has married. Hei'-uame 
is Mrs. Strebelow now.” 

“Ah! Strebelow was 3 "our rival? Why didnT; you call him 
out?” 


“No, no; you are mistaken. It wasn’t Strebelow that 
came between us;” and the count grits his teeth and his eyes 
snap fire. 

“ Ha! ha! there was another in the case,” says Louis, who 
knows the count well; “ and five years have not healed the 
wound — ” 

“ Or made me hate my rival the less,’’ interrupts the 
count, through his set teeth. 

“ But why didn’t she marry the other?” says Louis. 

The count shrugs his shoulders. 

“ 1 can’t imagine; and it is a great satisfacti 9 n to me that 
she didn’t. Strebelow is a fine gentleman, t have no ill 
feeling toward him, but if the other ever comes to Paris I’ll 
settle him.” 

“ I would not like to be in his boots,” says Montvillais, 
with a shudder. “ De Carojae, I think it is willful murder 
on 3 ^our part to call a man out; you are the best swordsman 
in Europe to-day.” 

“ I never send a challenge without good reason, Louis. 
This man that I shall call to account, if ever he conies to 
Paris, would have been merciful to me if he had run a sword 
through my heart in America. He would have spared me 
from a life of wretchedness.” 

The count takes out his watch as he speaks. 

“ I must leave you now, Louis; it is nearly five, and 1 have 
an engagement for half past. Shall I see you to-night?” 

“ Where can I find you?” 

“ In my rooms until nine; after that at the opera.” 

“ I have an engagement until nine.” 

“ Then say at the opera.” 


THE BANKEll'S DAUGHTER. 


91 


When Monfcvillais •arrives at the opera house he does not 
see Count de Carojae in his accustomed ^lace, so he loiters 
about the corridor to await his coming. As he does, his eyes 
fall upon a boi that comes within the range of his vision, and 
he is standing earnestly gazing at it when De Carojae taps 
him on the shoulder. 

“ Pardon, Louis, for keeping you waiting. 1 was unex- 
pectedly detained. 

“Oh, I‘m interested,’^ laughs Louis. “ I didn’t mind the 
delay. ” 

“ 1 see you are interested. What is it now?” 

“ Take the lorgnette and look at the center box yonder.” 

The count takes the glass and follows his friend’s direction. 

“ Did you ever see such a sparkling, handsome face?” says 
Montvillais, as the count seems in no hurry to take the glasses 
from his eyes. 

“ Yes,” says the count, slowly; “ I am sure I saw just such 
a face as that. ” 

“Where.?” 

“ In America,” says the count, taking the glass from his 
eyes, but still continuing to look at the box. 

“ Hang it! everything handsome that 1 point out to you, 
you have seen in America. ” 

“ 1 am sure I knew mademoiselle there,” says the count, 
his face lighting up; “ so. sure that I am tempted to send her 
my card.” 

“ Do you mean to tell me that the beautiful brunette is an 
American ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And I would have been willing to bet my last sou that she 
was French. Ah! there goes Comptoii, of the American 
Legation, into the box. That looks as if you were right, De 
Carojae.” 

“ I know that I am right; that young lady laughed at me 
too often to forget her easily, and five. years haven’t added a 
year to her life, that I can see. 1 wish I could speak to her. 
She was fond of talking, if I remember rightly; she would tell 
me all I want to know. ” 

Montvillais sees that the count is anxious, and he says: 

“ When we see Compton coming out. I’ll excuse you; go 
around there and meet him, and he’ll take you in. But re- 
member, you are to give me an introduction, by and by.” 

“ I’ll do it,” says the count, with a satisfied air; and as he 
watches the box, he says: “ 1 wonder who the old gentleman 


92 


THE banker’s daughter. 


is? his face is familiar. 1 must have ‘seen him in America. 
Some relative of mademoiselle’s — her grandfather, perhaps.” 

“ There, go; Compton is about to leave,’’ Mqntvillais says, 
giving the count a gentle push. 

The count arrives at the end of the corridor’ just in time to 
meet the American legate. 

“ Good-evening, Monsieur Compton. I have a favor to 
ask.” 

“I am at your service, count.” 

“ If 1 am not greatly mistaken, I had the pleasure of mak- 
ing the acquaintance of the lady you have just left, in 
America, more than five years ago: Miss St. Vincent. Am I 
right?” 

Compton smiles as he answers: 

“ She was Miss St. Vincent when you were in America; 
now she is Madame Brown.” 

“ Ah, indeed!” 

“ Do you wish to renew the acquaintance, count?” 

“ Yes, if agreeable to the lady. That is the favor 1 had to 
ask of you.” 

You are a friend of mine, count; that is sufficient; 
come;” and Compton leads the way to Mme. Brown’s box. 

“ Madame Brown, 1 have met an old acquaintance, who is 
desirous — ” 

“Count de Corajae!” interrupts • Mme. Brown, with the 
same impetuous voice, wide-open black eyes, and astonished 
expression of countenance that were Florence St. Vincent’s 
five years ago. 

The woman of three-and-twenty is even handsomer than the 
girl of eighteen, and thus far that is the sum- total of all the 
change there is about Florence. 

“ Count, I am c?elighted;” and she gives him her gloved 
hand. “ My husband, count; perhaps you remember meeting 
Monsieur de Brown,” says Florence, who has Frenchified the 
odious name. 

This Florence’s husband! The man he thought her grand- 
father. The polished manners of the Frenchman covers his 
surprise, and Monsieur de Brown only knows that he is happy 
to meet him. 

Compton takes his leave when the count is seated, saying 
that he knows they want to talk over old times, little dream- 
ing how nicely he hit upon the truth as far as concerned the 
count. 

^ “ You have never been to America since we met there ?’^ 


THE banker's daughter. 93 

asked Florence, planging into the subject nearest the count's 
heart. 

“ Never," answers the count. 

“1 suppose you had enough of it then — by the way, you 
left in a great hurry," says Florence, the spirit of mischief 
dancing as brightly in her eyes as of oid. 

The count has not a ready answer. Indeed, he winces as 
he smiles, and shrugs his shoulders. 

Florence heartily enjoys his discomfiture, and she continues, 
looking innocently up in his face: 

“ You went out riding with Miss Westbrook, one morning, 
and you left for Europe the next;" and Florence laughs as 
loud as she dare. 

The count's face turns a dark red as he tries to smile. 
Even old Mr. Brown sees that he is angry, and he says, in his 
squeaking voice: 

“ Florence is the same tease she was when you knew her, 
count. Don't mind her." 

“ If madame was teasing me, monsieur, I assure you I did 
not know it. I do not see any meaning — " 

“Oh! count. Well, never mind. I'll forgive you. Have 
you called on her yet?" and Florence laughs again. 

“ Called on whom?" asks the count; and his heart gives a 
bound. In his surprise he forgets his anger. 

“Pray, whom have I been talking about? On Madame 
Strebelow, of course;" h,nd Florence's eyes dance with merri- 
ment. 

“ I did not know that she was in Paris; but I saw a lady 
riding in the Champs Elysees to-day that I thought looked 
very like her." 

“I have no doubt it was she. She is fond of a canter on 
horseback, and takes the exercise every afternoon." 

“ 1 should like to see Madame Strebelow," says the count, 
in a guarded voice. 

“ 1 suppose so," says Florence, wilh a feigned sigh. “ Well, 
there is nothing to prevent you. She has taken up her resi- 
dence in Paris. • Shall 1 give you her address?" with an arch 
look. 

The count does not delay long in Mme. Brown's box after 
he gets Mrs. Strebelow’s address. He never liked Florence 
St. Vincent, and he detests her to-night. 


94 


THE BANKEK^S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XVIIL 

THE ONLY WOMAN HE EVER LOVED. 

“Monsieur StrebelowP^ 

“ Count de Carojae, I am glad to see you;'’ and John 
Strebelovv grasps the count’s hand warmly. 

The meeting takes place in the street. Since the count got 
the Strebelows’ address from Florence, last night at the opera, 
he has fairly haunted the American colony, and in this meet- 
ing has accomplished his object in haunting the spot. Being 
well aware of his feelings toward Mrs. Strebelow, he thinks it 
wise to obtain an invitation from the husband to call upon the 
wife. 

“ I anl delighted to meet my old acquaintance here in 
Paris,” says the count. “ And my old friend, Madame 
Strebelow, she is well?” 

“ Quite well; and would be most happy to see you, count.” 

“ And it would afford me great pleasure to meet madame. 
1 dropped into Madame Brown’s box at the opera last night, 
and she surprised me with the news- that you had taken up 
your residence in Paris.” 

“ Yes; for aught we know now, we are to remain here a 
year, perhaps longer. Since our marriage, Mrs. Strebelow is 
never contented long in one place. It Seems to me we have done 
nothing, but travel. However, she has taken a fancy to this 
delightful city of yours, and here we are. to remain until she 
wishes to return to America.” 

“ That won’t be in a hurry. Americans are all very fond 
of Paris. ” 

“So it seems; but, count, shall 1 tell Mrs. Strebelow that 
you will dine with us this evening? Or have you an engage- 
ment — ” 

“No engagement that I can not set aside for the pleasure 
you speak of.” 

“ Thanks, count. So you have met Mrs. Brown?” 

“ Yes, I have had the pleasure of meeting madame and her 
husband;” and the count smiles and elevates his eyebrows in 
a manner that makes John Strebelow laugh heartily. 

“ Before she introduced me, I thought the old gentleman 
was her grandfather,” continues the count. 

“ My dear count, Mr. Brown is worth five millions.” 

“Monsieur Strebelow, I am well enough acquainted with 
the lady to know that Monsieur Brown is not a poor man. It 


THE banker’s DAUGHTER. 


9o 


would hardly be consistent with madame’s character to sacri- 
fice her youth for the sake of making a poor old man’s latter 
days comfortable.. Ah, no!” and the count shakes his head; 
then says, suddenly: “But why doesn’t she leave him at 
home? 1 take it that monsieur can scarcely walk. One of 
his feet was so large,” gesticulating with his hands; “ all done 
up in cotton.” 

“ You say, why doesn’t she leave him at home, count?” 
says Strebelow, smiling. “ For the very best of reasons: 
Brown won’t stay at home. He isn’t going to be propped up 
in an invalid’s chair and made an old man of. He must be 
about, flirting with all the pretty women, making his wife 
jealous, so that she will love him the more.” 

“ Making his wife jealous?” 

“ That is what he says, count,” smiles Strebelow. 

“ Yes, he makes her jealous — in his imagination.” 

“ Mr. Brown thinks that he is as young as any of us,” 
laughs Strebelow. 

“ Poor old monsieur!” with a shrug of his shoulders, and a 
laugh. “ But talking of age. Monsieur Strebelow, you seem 
to have grown younger since last 1 Saw you. Is it married 
life that makes the finger of Time turn backward?” and the 
count fixes his glittering black eyes on John Strebelow’s 
handsome, frank face. 

“It must be married life, count. Beg pardon, are you 
married?” 

“ Oh, no; and it isn’t likely that I ever shall be.” 

“ Don’t say that, count, for you have no idea what a charm- 
ing life a man lives who is married — and happily mated. He 
ought to keep young. ” 

“ Happily mated,” says the count, between his set teeth, a 
few minutes later, as he looks after John Strebelow. “ Then 
it was a love-match. Strange, very strange! I was sure that 
she loved Routledge, that it was for him she discarded me. 
It must have been so, in spite of all Monsieur Strebelow can 
say about being happily mated. She was in love with Pout- 
ledge; 1 saw enough the night of that ball to make me posi- 
tive of that. And how jealous he was of me! how he insulted 
me with his supercilious stare! Ah, well! De Carojae never 
forgets, nor forgives, as you will learn, if ever we meet. 
Monsieur Routledge.” 

Evening comes, the hour for which Count de Carojae has^ 
been burning with impatience, and he presents himself for 
admission to John Strebelow’s handsome residence. While 


96 


THE banker’s daughter. 


he is waiting for the door to be opened, the master of the 
house appears upon the steps. 

“ Good-evening, count. I was very near not being here to 
receive you. I have been attending to business, that I could 
not very well set aside, every moment since 1 left you,” says 
Strebelow, putting his key in the door. 

“ Does Madame Strebelow know that I am coming?” 

“ No. You see, I thought 1 would get home an hour ago; 
but it is just as well; it will be such a pleasant surprise for 
Mrs. Strebelow.” 

The count inwardly hopes Mrs. Strebelow will be pleas- 
antly surprised; but he doubts it as he says, in his polished 
manner: 

“You honor me, monsieur.” 

Strebelow throws open the door just in time to save the 
footman the trouble of doing the same. 

“ Say to Mrs. Strebelow that I am waiting for her in the 
salon,” he says to Buttons. 

“ Madame is in the salon, monsieur.” 

“ Ah, very well. This way, count;” and John Strebelow 
leads the way to the salon, and pauses before the wide-open 
doors. 

“ Isn’t that a picture!” he whispers to the count, his face 
beaming with happiness. 

The count’s face darkens with envy and jealousy as he con- 
templates the scene in the salon. The poise of the head, the 
golden hair, the form, more womanly than when he saw it 
last, he recognizes at once. She is sitting on a low chair. He 
can not see her face, but he hears her voice as she talks to the 
child kneeling beside her. 

“ Are you a father, monsieur?” says the count, in a sup- 
pressed voice. 

“ Bless you, yes, of four years’ standing. Listen;” and a 
glad, happy smile breaks over the handsome face of John 
Strebelow. 

“ Papa is so long away. Why doesn’t he come home, 
mamma?” 

“ My darling, papa must be detained on business. Don’t 
you know, Natalie, that he won’t stay away from you and me 
a moment longer than he can help? Let me explain these 
beautiful pictures to you; it will pass the time away until 
papa comes;” and the young mother draws her child closer 
to her as she opens the picture-book on her lap. 

“ Papa is here,” says the deep, musical voice of John 
Strebelow, as he steps into the salon. 


THE BAHKEK^S DAUGHTER. 


97 


The child jumps up with a glad cry, and the mother quick- 
ly closes her book. For an instant a look of joy illumines tho 
eyes always so touchingly sad in their expression; but, as if 
by a supreme effort, the joy is suppressed the moment it shows 
itself, and the eyes are mournful, and the face has not a 
vestige of eagerness when they are turned to the husband. 

Lilian, I have brought home an old acquaintance to dine 
with us — the Count de Carojae.’’^ 

“ The Count de Carojae!"^ 

It is not a joyful greeting, but an exclamation of dismay 
and surprise, for the count is associated with bitter memories. 
The husband does not notice Lilian’s manner; the count, as 
he steps forward, does. 

“ Yes, our old friend the count;” and John Strebelow 
stoops to kiss and caress his little daughter, so like her mother. 

In a moment Lilian recovers from her surprise and remem- 
bers her position. As hostess she is bound to welcome this 
man, though her heart revolts in doing so. No matter what 
her secret feelings are, she can show no disrespect to any one 
her husband deems fit to break bread at his table. She offers 
her hand to the count, and with a forced smile, says: 

“ Welcome, Count de Carojae; this is indeed unexpected.” 

“ Madame, need I say that I am delighted to meet you once 
more?” 

There was no mistaking the pressure of the count’s hand, 
and Lilian’s face, usually so white, turned scarlet beneath his 
look as he kissed her hand. 

“Sit down, papa, and take me on your knee; you were 
away all da}’, you know,” says little Natalie, in her lisping, 
coaxing voice. 

“Not now, my darling; I must change my dress for din- 
ner. Count, will you excuse me for a short time?” 

“ Certainly, monsieur.” 

“Lilian, you and the count can enjoy a chat about old 
friends in New York. Shall I ring for Lisette to take Nat- 
alie away?” 

“ No, no! we will find Natalie no annoyance. Let her re- 
main, John; she can play with her doll—” 

“ And my picture-book,” says the little one, who does not 
wish to be separated from her mother. 

“All right, my little dear;” and laughingly patting the 
child on the head, he leaves the salon. 

“ 1 have never been in America since 1 parted with you 
there,” begins the count; then pauses. 


08 THE BAHKER^S DAUniTTER. 

Lilian scarce knows whafc reply to make to this pointed as- 
sertion. 

“ I suppose Europeans do not visit the United States quite 
as often as our people come over here/^ she ventures. 

“ I know not what Europeans in general do/^ with a shrug 
of his shoulders; “ but no more of America for De Oarojae. 
My life was made very unhappy there, as you know,' Ma- 
dame — 

“ Count de Carojae,’^ interrupts Lilian, her face set, her 
eyes dilating, “ 1 would rather not talk about ourselves in 
America.’^ Dropping her severity, she continues, with a 
smile: “ Talk about Paris; iPs a more congenial theme. I be- 
lieve the Marquise d’Aubigne^s marriage takes place soon, does 
it not?’^ 

The count’s face is dark red as he replies, with emotion: 

“ Pardon me, madame; I should not have referred to so 
painful a subject; but the old wound, that never healed, bled 
afresh when 1 looked upon your face again.” 

Lilian tries to interrupt him with an impatient wave of her 
hand. 

“ Madame Strebelow, I shall not allude to it again. The 
Marquise d’Aubigne is to be married next month.” 

“ I hear it is to be an unusually brilliant affair;” and Lil- 
ian is praying inwardly for her husband’s return. 

“ Very brilliant. The marquise marries a prince.” 

“I am not surprised that she has won one of the blood 
royal. 1 think she is the most beautiful woman 1 ever met.” 

” A matter of taste, madarne. 1 know one far more beauti- 
ful,” says the count, with a look that does not leave Lilian in 
doubt as to whom the far more beautiful one is. “ Apropos 
of the prince, he is nearly seventy,” continues the count, with 
a smile. 

“ Indeed!” is all that Lilian says. She is annoyed at the 
count’s smiling and insinuating tone. 

“ Why be surprised, Madame Strebelow? That sort of 
thing is sometimes done in the States, you know. 1 met your 
friend, Madame Brown, and her husband at the opera last 
night;” and the count laughs. 

Strebelow entering at this moment, turns the conversation, 
much to Lilian’s relief. 

The count narrowly watches husband and wife. It is verv 
apparent that the husband is a happy man— but the wife? 
Count de Carojae chuckles over the discovery. He has 
watched the only woman he has ever loved, and he knows 
there is a secret sorrow gnawing at her heart-strings— a sor- 


THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER. 99 

row that asserts itself iu spite of her, and proclaims to the 
count that she is not happily mated. 

From this night the Count de Garojae is a constant visitor 
at John Strebelow’s, and Mrs. Strebelowis seldom seen in pub- 
lic when the count is not hovering about her. 

_ The count was right. After five years Lilian. Strebelow is 
far from being a happy woman. The first year of her mar- 
ried life was wretched beyond description. She was a 

“ Pale woman, weaving away 
A frustrate life at a lifeless loom.” 

She never lost sight of Eoutledge^s. face as she saw it in the 
vestibule of the church. Waking and sleeping, it haunted her. 
Utterly wretched in mind and body, she had not the strength 
to conceal her feelings. Blind to her husband’s increasing de- 
votion, blind to the love he lavished upon her, she was cold, 
silent, capricious; but Strebelow’s generous nature found an 
excuse for the unhappiness he could not help seeing. He laid 
the cause to Nature, and he was sure he was right; for when 
Natalie was born Lilian became cheerful, happy, and more 
like her old self. The mother’s heart turned to the child, and, 
though Lilian scarce understood it at once, to the father. Her 
eyes gradually opened to the unfailing love and devotion of 
her husband, to the nobility of his character, which she seemed 
to have lost sight of for months. She caught herself listen- 
ing for his coming; she knew that she was happier when he 
was near; but she made no outward sign of this change of feel- 
ing, save that she seemed content and always cheerful in her 
husband’s presence. Her fervent prayer was that she might 
learn to love her husband. Now her prayer is being answered, 
but in her newly found joy there is a large j)roportion of sor- 
row. 

“ He seems content with me.as I am—as 1 have been,” she 
said to herself, one day, with much bitterness. “ Why should 
I tell him by word or sign that which, since our marriage, he 
has never been anxious to know? Is it stern duty on his part 
that makes him lavish love on me?” 

She could not answer the question then, nor can she now. 
She is in doubt, and is miserable over it. The more so be- 
cause every day her affection for her husband grows stronger 
within her heart. 

Lilian heard nothing of Harold Koutledge from the day of 
her marriage until after her child was born. Then, by chance, 
she saw a notice of him in a newspaper. He' was written of in 
glowing terms as an American artist fast gaining renown. 


100 


THE banker’s daughter. 


He was ia Germany at the time. This news, perhaps, had 
much to do with Lilian’s contentment, for no day passed that 
she had not prayed for him whose life she had blasted. Her 
prayer was that Harold might gain happiness and distinction. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“that picture and this.” 

“ How do you do, Montvillais? When did you get back 
from London?” is the Count de Carojae’s greeting as he rises 
from his lounging position when his friend enters his luxuri- 
ously furnished apartments. 

Montvillais is an art critic, and has been in London to at- 
tend the exhibition at the Royal Academy. 

“ I returned last evening,” says Montvillais, taking a chair; 
“ was at the Duchess Grammont’s.” 

“ 1 was there.” 

“ I know it, mon ami, I saw you, but you only saw golden 
hair and blue eyes.” 

The count shrugs his shoulders and smiles. 

“ She was very beautiful, very beautiful — ” 

“ Paris has gone mad over her since you have been gone,” 
interrupts the count, his face aglow. 

“ No wonder you did not see me,” laughs Montvillais. 
“ Mademoiselle is very pale — ” 

“ ‘ The face, oh, call it fair, not pale,' ” 
interrupts De Carojae. 

“ I acknowledge my error,” says Montvillais. 

“ And call her madame, not mademoiselle,” smiles the 
count. 

“ The lady is married? Ah, my poor friend,” says Mont- 
villais, with a wry face and a feigned sigh. 

The count sighs in earnest as he says: 

“ The lady is Madame Strebelow.” 

“Madame Strebelow, the fair equestrienne?” exclaimed 
Montvillais. 

“ The same. I was not mistaken, you see.” 

Montvillais is silent a few moments, then he says: 

“ There is something about the lady that gives one a feeling 
of sadness. 1 think it is the eyes.” 

“ Come, now, as a critic you ought to be able to tell. Does 
not madame’s expression proclaim a secret sorrow?” says the 
count, eagerly. 


THE banker’s daughter. 


1(;1 


Montvillais notes his eagerness. 

“ I would not like to say. When you saw rnadame in 
America — ” 

“ She had rosy cheeks and laughing eyes. She was beauti- 
ful then, but I think her more beautiful now.” 

Montvillais watches the count’s face, and is again silent. 

“Well, wdiat is the result of your brown study.^” says the 
count, with a touch of impatience. . 

“ This,” says Montvillais, slowly, as he rises and places his 
hand on the count’s shoulder: “ De Carojae, if you do not 
wish to make yourself utterly miserable — let alone the fact that 
you may get yourself into trouble with the husband^ — keep 
away from Madame Strebelow.” 

“ Mon ami, there are no grounds for alarm. Let us have no 
more of that. Where did you keep yourself that 1 did not see 
you last night?” 

Evidently the count wishes to turn the conversation. He is 
a man that doesn’t like advice, even if it comes from the man 
he calls his friend and brother. 

“ The duke carried me off to get my opinion of a couple of 
fine water-colors that he had purchased recently. When I re- 
turned to the salon you were nowhere to be seen. I was dis- 
appointed, as I am anxious for that promised introduction to 
Madame Brown. Before 1 went with the duke, I saw her flit- 
ting about with that bright, enchanting smile of hers, but 
when I came back she also was gone.” 

“ Yes, Madame Brown left with Monsieur and Madame 
Strebelow, quite early.” 

“Ah! now I know why another disappeared quite early,” 
with a moaning glance at the count. 

“ By the bye, Montvillais, I don’t like to introduce you to 
Madame Brown.” 

“ Why not?” 

“ I hate to disappoint you. Bright, charming, gay— flit- 
ting about a salon, look at her through a lorgnette, she is the 
same; but no closer inspection, please, or you will be speedily 
cured of your fascination,” says the count, sarcastically. 

“ How so?” 

“ Bah, I detest her! She is a vixen — worse, she’s devilish;” 
his bad temper coming to the surface in his description of 
Florence. 

Montvillais smiles covertly, and though he asks for no fur- 
ther information, he is confident that Mme. Brown is one too 
many for the Count de Carojae. 

On the following afternoon Montvillais is again sauntering 


102 


THE EAisKER^S DAEGHTEK. 


in the Champs Elysees. This time it is a brother critic, named 
JJampier, who accompanies him instead of the count Again 
Lilian dashes by on horseback. Montvillais sees her, and en- 
thusiastically calls Dampier^s attention to her splendid riding 
as he did the count’s. 

“ It is Madame Strebelow,” says Dampier. 

“ Yes— beautiful, is she not?” 

“ Very. Do you know that De Carojae is an ardent ad- 
mirer? Ho has got to be deucedly fond of horseback exercise 
lately, You can see him here any fine afternoon— about this 
time,” laughs Dampier. 

” If what I hear is true, Madame Strebelov,r has admirers 
without number in Paris.” 

“ C’est vrai, c'est vrail’^ 

“ The French love for the beautiful accounts for it, you 
know, mon ami/’ says Montvillais. 

“ Have you been introduced to Madame Strebelow?” 

“ Eot yet. Have you?” 

“No. Do you know, Montvillais, that her face haunts me? 
Wherever I see her 1 can not keep my eyes off her.” 

“ And you talk about De Carojae,” laughs Montvillais. 

Well, I agree with you. There is something in madame’s 
face that makes one turn to look at it again and again.” 

“ The other night, at Duke Grammonl/s, De Villiers was 
telling me Madame Strebelow’s beauty was the topic — that 
her picture is on exhibition in the salle — ” 

“No!” says Montvillais, in astonishment. 

“ Well, De Villiers said every one that has seeii Madame 
Strebelow thinks that she has sat for the picture. A fascinated 
throng surrounds it during the hours of exhibition. There is 
the same haunting expression in her eyes — perhaps you have 
seen the picture?” 

“ No, I have not been in the salon since my return. Who 
is the artist?” 

“ I do not know. I have been too hard at work to visit the 
salon.” 

“ Umph!” and Montvillais is silent a few moments; then 
he says: “ I can not believe it is Madame Strebelow. Amer- 
icans are queer, you know, and if I read Monsieur Strebelow 
aright, he would not allow a picture of his wife to be on exhi- 
bition in the salle.” 

“ De Carojae seems to be a constant visitor at Strebelow’s; 
I should think he ought to know.” 

“ And he can not have heard anything about the picture, or 


tttt: banker’s daughter. 103 * 

lie certainly would have mentioned it to me. I dine with him 
in an hour; I will ask him about it/’ says Montvillais. 

“ And he will commission you to try and arrange a purchase 
at once,” laughs Dampier. 

Montvillais keeps his word. An hour later he breaks the 
subject to the count. 

“ A portrait of Madame Strebelow in the salle! Oh, no; it 
can not be!” 

“ What I tell you is 07i dit; but Dampier says that De Vil- 
liers declares it is Madame Strebelow’s picture.” 

“ I can not believe it; but we shall see it to-morrow morn- 
ing. If it is madame’s portrait we shall learn who owns it, and 
if money can buy it, it shall be mine!” says De Carojae, with 
emphasis. 

Accordingly, next morning, before any visitors arrive. Count 
de Carojae and Montvillais are in the Salle d’Art. Montvillais 
is well known here, and as he enters he says to an attendant : 

“ Bonney,” and he whispers to the count: “We will see if 
De Villiers was right. Bonney, have the kindness to conduct 
us to the lady’s portrait that has created such a stir here 
lately.” 

“ Old, monsieur;” and without the least hesitation Bonney 
leads the way. 

Montvillais gives the count a meaning glance as they follow. 
The count strains his sight in the direction the guide has 
taken. Montvillais is also on the alert, and both men pause, 
Montvillais with a cry of surprise, the count holding his breath, 
as Bonney says: 

“ Here it is, messieurs.” 

There is no mistake. It is Lilian Strebelow’s beautiful 
features, but the roses on the cheeks, the light in the eyes, are 
not Lilian Strebelow’s. The portrait is Lilian Westbrook as 
she looked on the day we presented her to our reader. 

Bonney goes about his business, and with -hands clasped in 
admiration, the count steps forward, saying, in a hushed voice: 

“ Lilian, as 1 knew her in America.” 

Montvillais puts on his eyeglasses and regards the picture 
intently. 

“ Ma foi!^* he says, “ 1 do not wonder that people think 
madamesatfor the picture; it is enough like her; though there 
is too much color in the cheek, and a different spirit in the 
eye. Who is the painter, De Carojae?” 

'J'he count’s hand trembles as he opens the catalogue. He 
finds the number, reads the artist’s name, and with an oath 
he flings the catalogue across the room. 


104 


THE banker’s DAHGHTER. 


“ 1 felt it! I knew that it was he! Curse him!” and the 
count turns once more to the picture. 

Montvillais does not speak at once. He shivers as he hears 
the count’s teeth grate, and listens, pretending to be examin- 
ing the picture, as the count continues, addressing himself to 
the portrait: 

“ My little queen! my beautiful, my only love! And I 
might have won you but for him!” and again the critic 
shivers as he hears the unpleasant grating of the count’s strong 
white teeth. “ But for him!” he repeats. “ Ah, how 1 hate 
him! How dare he paint your portrait.^ Memory must trou- 
ble him as much as it does me. Montvillais,” turning sharply 
to his friend, his face like that of a fiend, “ find out where he 
is, and negotiate for the picture without delay. My name is 
not to be mentioned; ho wouldn’t sell it to me; oh, no!” he 
concludes, with a satanic smile. 

“ You haven’t told me the painter’s name,” says Montvil- 
lais, still surveying the picture with the eye of a connoisseur. 
“ Whoever he is, he has turned out a fine piece of work here.” 

“ His name? I hate to mention it!” hisses the count, turn- 
ing to the picture. 

“ Then 1 shall have to see for myself;” and Montvillais 
picks up a catalogue. 

“Harold Routledge!” cries Montvillais, as if surprised at 
the discovery. 

“ After what I have told you, could you not guess?” says 
the count, impatiently. 

“ Mon clier says Montvillais, kindly, as he lays his 

hand on the count’s shoulder, “ why should you hate Monsieur 
Routledge, when he failed to win Madame Strebelow’s love? 
Are you not a little unjust in this matter?” 

“Montvillais!” cries the count, excitedly, “think of 
madame’s face as you saw it the other night. Look at that 
picture and at this,” and the count points to the face on the 
canvas; “ and can you say Routledge, failed to win niadame’s 
love?” 

“ 1 do not understand,” says Montvillais. 

“ Then 1 will explain: The secret told by that picture, the 
white face and sorrowful eyes, is that Routledge won her love, 
and holds it still;” and the count turns away, his face purple, 
and great cords standing out upon his forehead. 


THE banker's daughter. 


105 


CHAPTER XX. 

HEART-HUNGRY. 

“ Good-morning, my little pet; where is your mamma?" 
says Florence, sailing into the room, in the full splendor of a 
Parisian morning toilet. 

“ Good-morning, Auntie Brown," says Natalie, throwing 
aside her book. ^ Mamma come in a few minutes." 

“Bless mamma's darling, how she must love her!" and 
Florence gives the child a hug and a kiss. “ Oh, it must be 
so nice, so very nice, to have something to love!" says Flor- 
ence, with a sigh. 

It isn't Florence's first sigh over her loveless life. The pain 
that entered her heart on parting with Phipps has never since 
left it. But Florence is a brave little woman; the pain in her 
heart does not pale her cheek or make her eye dance the less 
merrily in the presence of others. Little Natalie is the only 
one that has ever heard her sigh. Every day she has a battle 
with any feeling of disappointment that comes to the surface, 
and succeeds in conquering it. She has sold herself for wealth 
and the enjoyment it could bring, and she is determined to 
have her money's worth — to be the gay butterfly to the end. 
Five years have passed, and Brown has not shuffled off his 
mortal coil, nor does he seem any nearer his last home to-day 
than he did on his second wedding-day, despite Mr. St. Vin- 
cent's — president of a life insurance company — prophecy to the 
contrary. If Florence is anxious to be free — if she is groan- 
ing under the strength of the tie that binds her — she makes no 
sign. She is never impatient with him, but humors his whims 
as if he were a child. Here let it be said, to her credit, if 
Brown had married a woman nearly his own age, he could not 
have found in her a more kind or attentive wife than Florence 
made him. 

“ Have you no one to love. Auntie Brown?" asks Natalie, 
looking up in Florence's face with large, innocent blue eyes. 

“ Why," sa3^s Florence, with a start, “little sweet, what 
put such a question into your mouth?" 

“You said just now. Auntie Brown, that it was so nice, so 
very nice, to have something to love; and you didn't look very 
happy." 

“Bless me!" says Florence, jumping up in her excitable 
manner; “ one can't open one's mouth before a child." 


106 


THE banker’s daughter. 


“ Have I said anything naughty. Auntie Brown?” and the 
pretty under lip drops tremblingly. 

“No, no, my darling!” and Florence clasps her in her 
arms. “ You didn’t understand me when I was speaking 
about it being so nice to have something to love; that is all, 
Natalie.” 

“ Good -morning, Florence,” says Lilian, entering at this 
moment, a mother’s joy shining in lK)r face, as she sees Natalie 
pressed to Florence’s bosom. 

“ Oh, 1 am so glad to find you alone. Jt seems as if we 
never can have a good gossip. 1 will ring for Lisette,” and 
Florence touches the bell. “ It won’t do to talk before the 
baby. Just now she caught me on something I said,” whis- 
pers Florence. 

“You must go with Lisette, dearest, and mamma will send 
for you by and by,” says Lilian, kissing Natalie. 

“ And you won’t forget to tell Auntie Brown that grandpa 
is coming?” says the child, as Lisette takes her out of the 
room. 

“ Do you expect your father, Lilian?” asks Florence, in . 
surprise. 

“Yes; I received a letter last night from him, stating that 
he was to take the next steamer outward bound, and we are 
expecting a telegram of his arrival every moment.” 

“ Oh, isn’t that nice! I suppose you are delighted?” 

“ Yes; you know Natalie was only a year old when we left 
New York; it is a long time to be separated from my father. 

I think we will go back to America and Aunt Fanny when 
father is going. I haven’t mentioned the subject to John yet, 
but I am tiring, of Paris;” and Lilian leans wearily back in 
her chair. 

“ The Duchess de Strebelow is dying of ennni, with live 
princes and chevaliers without number at her feet. Is it any 
wonder that poor little Mrs. Brown, who only gets a mere 
notice, a smile and a bow at the most, should be utterly pros- 
trated?” And, in imitation of Lilian, Florence falls back 
heavily in her chair; but the next instant she is up, in full 
vigor, addressing herself to Lilian, whose face wears an 
amused smile. “ 1 thought you were going to stay in Paris a 
whole year. What is the matter with you, Lilian? But I 
know: you have laid low the gay French capital, and now you 
are sighing for fresh conquests. You have so many admirers, 
Lilian; why can’t you persuade some of them to pay homage 
to me? You talk about tiring of Paris; I think it is an awful- 
ly stupid place. I expected a sensation every day> and we 


THR EAKKRIl^S DAUGHTER. 


10 ';^ 

haven^t had one since we came here. I am dying of en.iud;'^ 
and once more Florence looks utterly prostrated. 

“ If it would help your case any, 1 wish I could turn all my 
so-called admirers over to you, Florence, says Lilian, with a 
smile tinged with sadness. 

“ I know you would be only too willing to turn one over to 
me, and he is the one that loves you best — very earnestly — 
“ I believe, Lilian, he is getting desperate. 

“ Who?^^ 

“ Oh, you don’t know! That innocent face is admirably 
put on. Of course, you haven’t the faintest idea that I am 
talking of the Count de Carojae,” says Florence, with mock 
earnestness. 

“ I am strongly impressed that, instead of growing wiser, 
you talk more sheer nonsense every day you live,” answers 
Lilian, smiling. 

“ Call it nonsense, if you will. Duchess de Strebelow, but 
allow me 'to tell you that everybody is talking about the 
count’s grande passion for you. I suppose, though,” and 
Florence sighs and shakes her head, while her eyes are laugh- 
ing, “everybody, instead of growing wiser, talks more sheer 
nonsense every day they live;” and Florence’s laughter fills 
the room for some moments. 

Lilian attempts to speak, but Florence, with a sudden 
straightening of the face, prevents her. 

“ This is the subject I came to gossip about. 1 tell you the 
count is desperately in love with you, Lilian; just as much as 
he was in New York. How very quietly you dismissed him 
there! But I heard all about his proposal to you; such things 
will leak out, you know,” shaking her finger in Lilian’s face. 

“ Such things, you mean, will be found out as long as Ma- 
dame Busybody exists,” smiles Lilian. 

“ I suppose so,” says Florence, complacently; then with 
more energy: “ Speaking of New York, I have something to 
take back that I said to you oh the day that you told me you 
were engaged to John Strebelow. Can you guess what it is?” 

“You said so many things to me that day, if I remember 
anything about it. ” 

“ And one of the many things was, John Strebelow will be 
frightfully jealous; there will be no living with him. Do you 
remember?” 

“ Quite well;” and a bitter smile wreathes Lilian’s lips. 

“ I acknowledge that I wronged John Strebelow, He is a 
total stranger to the green-eyed monster, and you have every- 
thing your own way. Strebelow has turned out to be a darling 


108 


THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER. 


husband! I am awfully put out, though, that he isn^t a lit- 
tle jealous. I thought a fortnight ago that there would have 
been a duel fought by this time. Wouldn^t it be grand? 
What a sensation it would create, not only here, but in New 
York!’^ 

“Florence, what are you talking about?^^ and there is an 
expression of inward pain on Lilianas face. 

“ How very dull of comprehension you are. Duchess de 
Strebelow. I mean to say that if John Strebelow was the least 
bit jealous, he would challenge the count; and wouldn^t that be 
glorious says Florence, eagerly. 

“ John Strebelow is a very sensible man, you know,^’ says 
Lilian, smiling; but there is an under-tone of bitterness that 
Florence does not notice. 

“ Bah! how I hate your very sensible people! I declare if 
any one were making love to me so desperately I should insist 
on Brownes challenging him — for the sake of the sensation, 
my dear,'’ concludes Florence, laughing, as Lilian looks horri- 
fied. 

Florence little dreams how she tortures Lilian when she 
talked of John Strebelow not being jealous. Burning tears 
roll down Lilian's cheeks when her rattle-brain friend leaves 
her. 

“Even giddy Florence sees that the count is in love with 
me. Can I longer think that my husband is blind? No, no; 
he sees it all! And does it not prove conclusively that John 
Strebelow's loving words to me are merely uttered because he 
thinks it his duty to tell me that he loves me? Could any 
husband that married a woman under the conditions that John 
Strebelow married mo, look upon such attention as the count 
shows me with indifference — more, actually forces the tortur- 
ing attention upon me by bringing that man to this house? 
Why should I submit to it? Why should 1 try to appear 
happy and contented? Why should 1 not resent the love that 
is actuated by duty alone? Ah, but he has been so good to me, 
so patient with me! 1 think he did truly love me in the be- 
ginning. Oh, what a foolish girl I was! Oh, my husband, if 
I could lay bare my heart to you — if you would only ask me 
one question!" and, covering her face with her white hands, 
Lilian weeps aloud. 

A strange state of affairs this. The husband bestowing 
measureless love upon the wife, and she is heart-hungry, 
weeping tears of bitterness for that love. 


THE BANKEK^S DAUGHTER. 


109 


CHAPTER XXL 

THE HUSBAKD^S PEACE DISTURBED. 

About the same houf that Florence is talking to Lilian of 
Count de Carojae, that gentleman is waiting impatiently in his 
apartments for Montvillais, who made an appointment to meet 
him here this morning. 

“ Youh-e late/^ says the count, as Montvillais appears. 

“ Yes, but J could not help it. 1 — 

“ JDonT go into an explanation. What is your report of the 
picture? Have you communicated with Routledge?'^ he says, 
eagerly. 

“ 1 haven^'t communicated with him.^"’ 

“ Has he left Rome? Can you not learn where he has 
gone?'' 

“ He is still in Rome; but it is useless to communicate with 
him, for Binot tells me that he has been authorized by Rout- 
ledge to say to all inquirers that the picture is not for sale. 
The artist will not part with it," says Montvillais, in his easy 
tone, as he watches the effect of his words upon the count. 

“ I might have known it," exclaims De Carojae, in a rage; 
and he rapidly walks the floor. “ Well, let him keep it; let 
it remain on exhibition; it may suit my purpose now. I have 
thought that he would refuse to part with it;" and there is a 
look of deviltry in the count's eyes. 

Montvillais does not ask the count what his purpose is, and 
the count does not appear to be communicative on that point. 

In the evening the count attends a reception at the house of 
Mrs. Gore, an American lady, in the hope of meeting the 
Strebelows. He would be doomed to disappointment if Lil- 
ian had laid aside her foolish pride and obeyed the dictates of 
her heart. The following little scene took place between hus- 
band and wife as Lilian was about to enter her dressing-room 
to prepare for Mrs. Gore's. 

“ We won't remain at Mrs. Gore's long, Lilian?" says her 
husband, in an interrogative tone. 

The very thought of going to Mrs. Gore's,* or any other place 
where she would be likely to meet the count, gives her pain. 
And the count is not the only objection. She detests the ad- 
miration bestowed upon her from every side. What her heart 
craves is the quiet of her own home and her husband's soci- 
ety. Here, then, is an opportunity to open her heart to her 
husband, to tell him that she not only will be glad to come 


110 


TH7=: ■RAXKE1^^S PAT’CIHTEE. 


home early, but that she prefers not goin^; that she is 
tired of the admiration of strangers, and longs to spend a 
quiet evening with him. This is what her heart dictates, and 
had she obeyed it, what years of sorrow would be saved her. 
Giving utterance to her feelings would have called for an ex- 
planation, and then atid there all misunderstanding would have 
been cleared away, and perfect love and trust would have been 
the consequence, and this would be the happiest evening of 
Lilianas married life; but no, she listened to the voice of Pride, 
that said: Why should you reveal your heart unasked? and in- 
stead of this being the happiest evening, it will be the one on 
which a trouble such as she has not known yet begins, the one 
on which the first shadow falls upon the noble, loving, gener- 
ous heart of John Strebelow. 

-Lilian obeys the promptings of pride, and taking a step 
toward hei dressing-room, she answers: 

“ As you please. 

Was it the cold, indifferent tone of the answer, or was it the 
delay in uttering those few words that made John IStrebelow 
turn quickly and look at his wife, with a glimmer of .surprise in 
the depth of his dark eyes? He could not see her face as she 
was leaving the room, but two or three rapid steps brought 
him to her side before she reached her dressing- room door. 

“ Lilian,’^ and his arms are about her, “ not as 1 please. 
You know, if you wish to remain, that it would be no pleas- 
ure to me to spoil your enjoyment in leaving early. 

An evil spirit must have been hovering over Lilian. She 
smothered the voice of conscience, that told her she was 
wrong. She longed to throw herself on . his bosom, yet the 
very tenderness and anxiety of his voice goaded her to answer, 
with impatient impetuosity: 

“ Oh, I am tired of being humored like a child and fling- 
ing his arms from her, she hastily left the room. 

Fora minute John Strebelow stood like on'^ who had re* 
ceived a shock. What had he said? What had he done? He 
reviewed his conduct during the evening, during the day. He 
could think of no word or deed of his that should make his 
wife act in the manner she did. A grieved look settled on 
the handsome, frank face: John Strebelow was hurt. 

“She has not been so irritable since Natalie was born,’’ 
was all he said; but the grieved look did not leave his face as 
he dressed for Mrs. Gore’s. 

“ Lilian should have some consideration for my feelings,'^ 
he thought,, as he walked slowly up and down the room, wait- 
ing for his wife. He looked quickly toward the dressing-room 


THE banker's daughter. 


Ill 


door svhon it opened. Lisette appeared with her mistress’s 
cloak across her arm, and over her shoulder John Strebelovv 
caught sight of his wife's face, a miserable white face, that 
plainly conveyed to him the knowledge that there was intense 
inward suffering, and instantly the generous heart of the hus- 
band is in sympathy with that suffering. He no longer felt 
hurt; in a twinkle all sense of injury was gone, and he men- 
tally upbraided himself foi’ entertaining any such feeling. 

1 might have known that my poor darling was not her- 
self," was his mental comment, and Re quickly stepped for- 
ward and took the cloak from Lisette 's arm. 

“ Lilian," he said, in a trembling voice, as he wrapped it 
around her and drew her toward him, “ you are not well. Per- 
haps we had better not go." 

His voice was filled with tenderness, anxiety, and she felt 
his arms tremble about her. Her lips refused to utter the 
cold reply she had framed. She could not break away from 
him now. Perhaps she regretted having done so once to- 
night, for it took all her strength of will to keep back the 
tears that were forcing their way to her eyes. Her chin 
drooped until it touched the diamond locket on her bosom as 
she said, brokenly: 

“ I shall feel better when I am at Mrs. Gore's. 1 will look 
in on Natalie now." 

She could not trust herself to remain another moment in his 
arms; and as she hurried away the husband thanked God that 
nothing had come between him and his wife. Again he took 
himself to task for feeling hurt, saying that he might have 
known that she was not well. 

Lilian went to her child. The little thing was sleeping. _ 

“ My sweet, innocent child," and Lilian’s tears fell like rain- 
drops as she pressed her lips to the child's brow, “ what should 
1 do all these years but for your love! Yes, I know that you 
love me, and why am I not content?" 

She shook her head as she wiped the tears from her eyes. , 

“ My darling, I shall never again be content with the child's 
love alone. 

“ ‘ I sUind on a rock where two rivers meet, 

With a life behind and a life before; 

And one is ebbing away from my feet, 

And the other is rising more and more.’ ” 

Lilian has never been so much admired as she is to-night at 
Mrs. Gore's. 

‘‘ What has come over the spirit of Lilian's dream.'" says 
Plorence, touching John Strebelovv on the arm with her fan. 


112 


THE banker’s DArGHTER. 


Strebelow is talking to Florence’s husband and /another 
friend when she attracts his attention. He looks ojer at his 
wife, who is engaged in an animated conversation with* young 
Harry Gore. There ar^ roses on her cheek, and her eyes are 
brilliant. Lilian must be in a fever, he thinks; and faint as 
the look of alarm is that appears upon his face, Florence sees 
it, and continues: 


“ She looks just as she used to look before she was married. 
What makes you frown? Are you jealous?” laughs Florence. 

“ Have 1 frowned?^ smiles Strebelow. “ 1 didn’t know. 
State, if you please, Mrs. Brown, what cause I have to be 
jealous?” 

“ Because,” laughs Florence, “ or, if I must be more ex- 
l^licit, since Lilian’s marriage she has not looked like her old 
self until to-night, and I am sure you never saw so many looks 
of admiration bestowed upon her.” 

” My dear Mrs. Brown, my wife can not be admired too 
much; at least that is my way of thinking.” 

“ What a love of a husband!” sighs Mrs. Brown; then, with 
a malicious little laugh: “ I see the Count de Oarojae has ar- 
rived, and is making straightway for his post. Isn’t it fortu- 
nate for him that this is my dance with Harry Gore. It leaves 
him a clear field.” 

” But Harry Gore doesn’t seem to relish leaving the field 
clear. Evidently he does not consider this dance in the nick 
of time,” says Strebelow, blandly. 

“Ah! you can be cutting when you like, Mr. Strebelow. 
Of course the attraction is not strong enough to induce Harry 
Gore to leave the field clear with a good grace. I didn’t mis- 
understand what you said, and I won’t forget it.” 

She shakes her fan at John Strebelow and laughs lightly as 
she turns to Harry Gore, who comes to claim her for the 
dance. 

John Strebelow turns again to speak to Mr. Brown, but his 
eyes wander to his wife, and his heart is troubled. Florence 
was right: she does look to-night as she did when he called her 
his airy, fairy Lilian. “ She is feverish; she is certainly not 
well enough to be here to-night,” he thinks. “ Why have the 
roses never bloomed in Lilian’s cheeks since the day 1 asked 
her to be my wife?” Where has this question been for five 
long years, that it has not presented itself until to-night? It 
comes upon him like a thunder-clap. He is chilled to the 
heart’s core. Unconsciously he raises his hand to his dazed 
head as Mr. Brown puts a question to him. He has lost the 


THE BAiTKEIl'*S DAUGHTER. 


113 


drift cf the gentlemaii^s conversation, and he scarce knovys 
what reply he is making. His eyes again seek his wife^s face. 

“Bah!’^ he says, giving himself a slight shake, as if to 
throw aside his disagreeable thoughts. “ I must have eaten 
something that doesn^t agree with me, or lam trying my very 
best to make myself miserable to-night;^’ and as if to turn 
the drift of his thoughts, he once more takes an earnest part 
in the conversation. 

This evening Lilian determined, under the influence of the 
evil spirit that hovered over her, to_come here to-night and be 
as gay as the gayest. After this she might be cold and silent 
at home with her husband, but she would let him see that she 
could be gay and happy in society. She would take up the 
thread of her life where it was broken off oji the day John 
Strebelow asked her to be his wife. Outside of his home she 
would be gay, happy, light-hearted as in days of old — that is, 
if he were about to see her. To-night she tries it. .She is 
successful, to all appearances, as our reader knows. Her 
cheeks are a deep pink, her eyes are like stars. She laughs 
and talks in a manner that turns the heads of her admirers. 
But it is well that they can not look beneath the surface. 

“ Heaven’s Sovereign spares all beings but Himself 
That hideous sight — a naked human heart!” 

llow Lilianas heart mocks the glow in her cheeks, the 
brightness of her eyes, her merry laughter. As she talks to 
Harry Gore, she covertly watches her husband. What effect 
has her change of conduct upon him? None, that she can 
see— it was before Florence called John Strebelow's attention 
to his wife. “ He doesn’t care whether I.- am. gay or sad; 1 
might have known it,” is what she says in her mental agony, 
as she smiles on Harry Gore. 

She receives Count de Oarojae, as Harry leaves her, in such 
a pleasant manner that the Frenchman thinks madarne is in 
an unusually agreeable mood to-night. The count looks at 
her with undisguised surprise and admiration. He has looked 
at her but a few moments, when he thinks: “ To-night ma- 
dame looks very like the girl that laughed at me in America. 
I can read her better to-night than I could if she wore that 
white, stony face.” 

“Madame, Paris must be agreeing with you wonderfully 
well,” he says, boldly. “ Since you' came here you have been 
improving, until to-night you are a perfect picture of health 
and good spirits.” 




114 


THE banker's daughter. 


Lilian is pleased to learn that she has been successful with 
her looks, and she says, with a smile: / 

“ The air of Paris acts like a charm upon me. 1 find it the 
most delightful spot on earth. This is what politeness com- 
pels me to tell Parisians, one and all," she concludes, archly. 

The count smiles and shrugs his shoulders as he says: 

“ I do not know what has caused the change, madame, but 
I assure you, until to-night you haven't looked to me like the 
Miss Westbrook 1 left in America — " 

“Count," laughingly interrupting him, “I thought 
America was a forbidden subject." 

Lilian could not have answered in a manner that would bet- 
ter suit the count's purpose. 

“ Well, then, to-night you look more like your picture in 
the salle than you did yesterday," says the count, smiling. 

“What picture, count?" says Lilian, with smiling sur- 
prise. 

“ Your portrait that is on exhibition," he answers, coolly. 

“ My portrait on exhibition in the salle! Are you not mis- 
taken, count?" 

“ Well," and again the count smiles and shrugs his shoul- 
ders, “ as J said, you look more like it to-night than you did 
yesterday." 

“ I thought you were mistaken, count. Some picture that 
slightly resembles me, I suppose." 

“ Harold Routledge is the artist — " 

“ Rout—" 

The name dies upon her lips, and the count laughs sarcastic- 
ally as the color fades from her cheek. He was right: to-night 
it is easy to readJLilian's face. 

“ If the picture is not Madame Strebelow’s, it bears a strong 
resemblance to her, and shows that some one besides De Caro- 
jae is tormented with a remembrance of Miss Westbrook's 
face;" and the count's eyes gleam with suppressed passion, 
and he shows his white set teeth in a .manner that makes 
Lilian's flesh creep. 

She tries to make some light rejoinder, but her lip trem- 
bles, and she would fail utterly, only Florence appears upon 
the scene with her ever-ready tongue. 

“ AVhat have you done to the count, Lilian? He looks 
dangerous. 'Pon my honor you do, count! Y"ou look more 
than dangerous; you look wicked when you show your teeth 
in that manner, very wicked!" 

Florence takes a keen delight in cutting the count. She 


THE BANTvER^S DAUGHTER. 115 

laughs heartily now as his face grows black as a thunder- 
cloud. 

“ Madame is complimentary, as usual,^' says De Carojae, 
with a sneer that he has no wish to conceal. 

Lilian is mentally blessing Florence for coming to her 
rescue. She must say something quickly to hide from the 
count the effect his information has upon her. She tries to 
laugh and catch some of Florence’s spirits as she remarks: 

“ Mrs. Brown is only trying to tease you, count.” 

“ And if I were a man, for my impudence the count would 
call me out,” laughs Florence. 

“ Sure!” says the count, under his breath. 

But Florence does not wait for his reply. Looking at Lili- 
an in surprise now, she says: 

“ What’s the matter, Lilian?” with a look of indignation 
at the count. There must be some blighting influence near. 
Only half an hour ago I was saying to Mr. Strebelovv that I 
had not seen you looking so well since you were married. 
Xow your face is as white and you are looking as sad as 
usual.” 

“ Perhaps Madame Strebelow has heard something within 
the last half hour to make her look sad,” says the count, with 
a malicious smile, as he fixes his eyes on Lilian’s face with a 
meaning look. 

Lilian returns his look with one of haughty defiance as she 
says, in an icy tone: 

“ Count de Carojae, I do not understand you.” 

“ Ila! ha! count, it is very evident that you have displeased 
the duchess,” says Florence, with a laugh that enrages the 
nobleman. “Ah! here comes, the Prince de Brown. I was 
wondering that he was not after me,” says Florence, with a 
wry face, as her husband comes limping toward her. 

“I beg ten thousand pardons if I have offended Madame 
Strebelow,” says the count, in a low voice. 

If Lilian has heard it she makes no reply, as she excuses 
herself and crosses the room to her husband. 

“ I wonder if Monsieur Strebelow has heard about the pict- 
ure? I shall ask him by and by, and see how he takes it,” 
mutters the count, as Mr. Brown flutes him. 

But De Carojae is disappointed in giving any information to 
John Strebelow to-night, for when his wife joins him she says: 

“ John, I will go home now, if you are ready.” 

It is very early to leave, but John Strebelow makes no re- 
mark as to the time. He sees that his wife’s face has resumed 
its whiteness. 


116 


THE BANKER^ S DAUGHTER. 


/ 


“ You are no better, Lilian he says. 

“No; I want to go home at once,^’ she answers, wearily. 

“ I knew that she was not well,^'’ is John Strebelow’s mental 
comment; and, strange to say, he murmurs: “ Thank God!'' 


CHAPTER XXII. 

‘‘HAROLD, Harold!" 

John Strebelow and his wife leave Mrs. Gore's, and for 
some time after no one but the hostess knows that they have 
gone. 

“Are you warm enough? Are you quite comfortable, 
Lilian?" asks John Strebelow, in a voice of concern, as the 
carriage door closes upon them, and Lilian, with a slight 
shiver, draws her cloak about her and sinks into the corner 
of the carriage. 

“ Quite." 

Her lips close tightly after that one word passes them. The 
movement might indicate that she wishes to speak no more, 
and so her husband understands it. He says nothing, but, 
leaning back in the opposite corner, the feeling of injury that 
came to him before to-night is in his heart again. They 
reach home in silence. Lilian goes straight to her own room. 
Her husband follows her. She knows that his eyes are upon 
her, and she is uncomfortable and cross — out of temper, not 
with her husband, but herself. The role she has played to- 
night has been anything but satisfactory. She regards the 
count’s manner and remarks as both impudent and insulting; 
but in her heart she must acknowledge that she brought it 
upon herself; that she is punished for the encouragement she 
gave him; and the knowledge does not tend to make her on 
very good terms with herself. And then the picture by Rout- 
ledge; she can not forget it for a moment, and all the way 
home she repeats to herself: “Poor Harold!" She knows, 
as her husband follows her without a word, that he is a trifle 
troubled on her account, nothing mere; and her conduct to- 
night has not drawn him ^ny nearer to her. On the whole, 
she is disappointed and dissatisfied to such a degree that she 
becomes reckless. On entering her room she flings aside her 
cloak, and going over to the dressing-table, draws off her 
gloves and unclasps her glittering jewels. 

John Strebelow has quietly seated himself in a chair. His 
wife stands with her face turned from him, but she knows, as 
well as if she were looking at him, that his eyes are upon her. 


THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER. 


iir 


Having taken off her jewelry, she turns from the table, 
snatches up her cloak again, and is going toward the door, 
when her husband says, in a strange, quiet voice: 

“ Lilian, where are you going?^’ 

“ To see Natalie, she answers, shortly. 

She does not pause as she answers. Her hand is on the 
door-knob, she is about to pass out, but a strong hand draws 
her back, and the door is closed again. She turns quickly 
upon her husband, with a look that is half defiant, half in- 
dignant, saying: 

“ Shall 1 not go to my child if 1 please 

For a moment dark eyes, with a depth of sadness, meet 
flashing blue ones, and the husband says, in a slow, sad voice 
in which there is not a touch of anger: 

“Lilian, we are more or less blind to our own faults. If 
ever I have been tyrannical, as your words now imply, 1 have 
been so unwittingly; and if you will give me one instance in 
which I have not allowed you to do as you pleased, to go where 
you pleased, I will be convinced, and mend my ways in the 
future. 

As he spoke her eyelids fluttered and drooped, her lips 
trembled, and her bosom heaved. If he had shown displeas- 
ure instead of pain, if he had spoken harshly to her, she could 
readily answer him. Now what can she say, as she tries to 
keep her tears back, but: 

“ 1 did not mean to find fault. You have been an over- 
indulgent husband to me.'’' 

She tries to get away from him as she speaks, but he holds 
her fast. 

“ Let me go,'’ she says, in a broken voice. 

He draws her closer to him, saying: 

“ Lilian, what ails you to-night?" 

“ I do not know;" and her head droops lower. 

“ Lilian, you said you were not well." 

“ I don’t think I am quite; but it is nothing; I shall be 
better to-moi-row," she answers, tremblingly, hesitatingly, 
her face burning under the gaze that she feels is trying to 
read her inmost thoughts. 

“ You frightened me once to-night, Lilian. Your cheeks 
were so rosy and your eyes so bright that 1 thought you were 
in a high fever." 

She bites her lips with chagrin to think that her conduct had 
impressed him in a manner so entirely different from what she 
had intended, and the defiant look returns to her eyes as she 
raises them to his. 


IIS 


THE bANKER^S HAUGHTER. 


.‘‘You were mistaken; there was no fever. I was simply 
enjoying myself. Do let me go. 1 am tired, and must see 
Natalie before I go to bed.’^ 

He releases her without a word, and holds the door open for 
her to pass out. 

“ My God! what has come over her to-night — or is the fault 
here?’^ he says, striking his own bosom. 

A half hour flies by before Lilian returns. There are traces 
of tears on her cheeks, which probably accounts for her long 
absence. She finds her husband in an easy-chair, his hand- 
some, massive head lying back upon the cushion, his eyes 
closed. He has fallen asleep, she thinks, and she is relieved, 
for she dreaded him discovering that she had been crying. 
Very quietly she steps into her bedroom, undresses herself, 
and goes to bed, but not to sleep. She may truthfully say 
she is not well now, for she has cried herself sick. She blames 
herself for her conduct to-night. She has made her husband 
miserable, and widened the gulf between them. She must 
not go on in this sinful manner, she thinks; she must not, for 
her child's sake; better that she should go on suffering in 
silence than that her whole household should be made misera- 
ble. Then her thoughts turn to Harold Routledge. 

“ Harold, you are surely happier than 1 am to-night;^’ and 
she draws the coverlet over her face to smother a sob. 

A pang of remorse seizes her heart. Save in her prayers, 
she has forgotten of late to think of Routledge. The one for 
whom she gave Harold up has taken his place in her heart. 
And has Harold found another to replace her? She hopes so; 
but, if what the count said about the picture resembling her 
is true, it is impossible that Harold has forgotten her as com- 
pletely as she has him. She means to find out for herself to- 
morrow if there is any truth in what the count has told her. 
How she detests the count! She shivers beneath the warm 
bed-covering as she thinks of the look of hatred in his eyes as 
he spoke of Harold; and thinking of the count and Harold, 
she falls asleep. 

John Strebelow must have fallen asleep in his chair, for he 
has been dreaming, or he thinks he hears a shriek, and ho 
starts from his chair and looks about him. The gas is blaz- 
ing, the fire in the grate has gone out. As he rubs his eyes 
there is another scream, and his wife’s voice cries in agony 
from the next room: 

“ Harold, Harold!” 

John Strebelow rushes into the bedroom. His wife is 
lying in bed. ■ 


THE banker’s daughter. 


119 


“ Good heavens! Lilian, what ails you?” - 

Her eyes are closed when he reaches the bed. He quickly 
raises her head. She opens her eyes and stares wildly about 
her. 

“ Lilian, donH be afraid; you have only been dreaming,” 
he says, reassuringly; and he draws a breath of relief, because 
it was only a dream. 

“ Oh,” she says, with a deep-drawn sigh, “ is it you, John?” 
and she presses closer to him. 

“ Yes, Lilian; you must have had a frightful dream. Your 
screams awoke me — and you cried, ‘ Harold,’ and begged of 
me to save some one.” 

John Strebelow had not heard Harold Routledge’s name 
mentioned for years, and he does not dream now who his wife 
could be thinking of when she called the name, 

“ Oh, I have had a terrible dream about the Count de 
Garojae. What time is it, John — how is it that you are still 
up?” she says, to turn the conversation from her dream. 

“Harold — the count’s name is not Harold — at least, I do 
not think it is. Can the count have anything to do with 
Lilian’s strange conduct?” John Strebelow strangles the 
thought at once. He would doubt that the stars shone in the 
heavens sooner than entertain a thought against his wife’s 
honor. 

These thoughts flash through his mind as he looks at his 
watch. 

“It is four o’clock — I must have fallen asleep in the 
chair,” he answers. 

“ Fell asleep in the chair because I made him so misera- 
ble,” thinks Lilian, and resting her head against his bosom, 
she says: “ John, forgive me; I have been very disagreea- 
ble—” 

“ My darling,” he says, joyfully, clasping her to his heart, 
“ there is nothing to forgive;” and kissing her, he lays her 
back upon the pillow. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE COUNT FOILED. 

Lilian dreamed that the count was killing Koutledge, and 
she called upon her husband to save him. She is thinking of 
the dream, and her awakening from it, as she lies in bed this 
morning. 

“ He heard me calling Harold’s name, and he seemed to 
think nothing of it. Is it not conclusive proof that he does 


120 


THte banker’s daughter. 


not love me?” she says, with a sigh; ‘‘ for a man that really 
loved his wife could not show so little feeling on hearing the 
name of the man she loved falling from her lips, even in a 
dream. Well, 1 shall never again show as much feeling as 1 
did last night. I was a fool to break the jieace 1 lived in so 
long. In my madness 1 thought it would be so easy to take 
up again the old thread of life, and what a failure 1 have 
made of it. I shall never try to fly in the face of my destiny 
again. For my child’s sake I must live in peace with my hus- 
band.” 

With this resolution — that, by the way, is made too late — 
Lilian rises, puts on her dressing-gown, and .rings for Lisette. 
The sun bursts into the room when she throws open the 
jalousies. She has no idea that she slept so long. She looks 
at the clock ; it is half past nine. 

“ Has Mr. Strebeiow gone out?” she asks, when Lisette 
appears. 

“No, madame; he has not breakfasted yet. He is with 
Natalie. He said he would remain with her until you came 
down.” 

Lilian was in hopes that her husband had gone out. She is 
half in dread, half ashamed to meet him this morning. She 
thinks she v/ill die of mortification if he refers to last night — 
especially to her dream. Why should she have this feeling if 
she thought her conduct last night justifiable? Surely Lili- 
an’s conscience is troubling her this morning. A discussion 
on Harold Routledge, at this late day, would be intolerable to 
her. 

“ Well,” she says to herself, as she puts the finishing touch 
to her morning toilet, “I must meet him some time to-day; 
so the sooner it is over the better. ” 

“ How are you to-day, Lilian?” says her husband, putting 
Natalie gently from his knee and rising to meet his wife as 
she enters the breakfast-room. 

“ Much better,” she says, as she receives his kiss. “ I am 
sorry to have kept you waiting so long.” 

“ Oh, I have not been waiting long. It was nearly nine 
when I came down-stairs, and Natalie has been amusing me 
since.” 

“ My little darling,” Lilian says, taking the child in her 
arms. 

“lam glad you look so much better to-day, Lilian. You 
know, we may hear at any moment that your, falher has 
arrived, and it would never do to have him find you misera- 
ble;” and John Strebelow’s eyes are on his wife’s face. 


THE banker’s daughter. 


121 


“ Don’t be alarmed, John; I am myself to-day,’^ says Lili- 
an, who dreads this conversation, and wishes to put an end 
to it. 

This answer takes a weight from John Strebelow’s heart, as 
it is an acknowledgment that she was not herself last night; 
and to Lilian’s intense satisfaction he does not again refer to 
the subject. Breakfast over, he says: 

“ Shall we take a drive this morning, Lilian? 1 think it 
would benefit you.” 

She answers that she would rather not go. Perhaps later 
in the day, if he is not engaged, she might enjoy it. 

“ Very well, my dear. I have some business to attend to, 
and 1 will get through with it by an early hour this afternoon; 
then I will be at your service,” he says, kissing her. 

“ By-by, Natalie,” as he takes his hat to depart. 

The little one runs up to him for a kiss, saying: 

“ Papa, are you going for grandpa?” 

“Well, well, the child has done nothing this morning but 
talk of her grandpa,” says Strebelow, laughingly, to Lilian. 

“ She has heard me talk of him so much,” answered 
Lilian. 

“ Perhaps grandpa will come to-day, darling.” 

“ But, mamma, you said that yesterday,” says Natalie, with 
a grieved look. “ The big ship must be very slow.” 

The parents exchange a smile, and Strebelow makes the 
little one happy again by saying he is going out at once to 
learn if there is any news of the big ship. 

When Strebelow is ^one, Lilian finds herself in a very un- 
decided state of mind. She wants to go to the salon to see 
Routledge’s picture, but having refused to drive with her hus- 
band, she fears his returning and finding her not at home. 
True, she would readily find an excuse to oiler him, but she 
dare not tell him the truth. Not for worlds would she men- 
tion Routledge’s name in connection with the picture to him, 
when but last night he has heard her call aloud for Harold in 
her dreams; and Lilian shrinks from telling a falsehood or 
acting a deceitful part. She decides to remain at home; but 
this decision is only of a few minutes’ standing. Her mind 
wavers. She is so curious to see the picture, to know if the 
count spoke the truth about it. “ Go,” says the small voice of 
the tempter; “you can be at home again in half an hour. Your 
husband will never know that you have been out.” She tries 
to smother this voice, but without avail, and at last it con- 
quers her. She goes to the Salle d’Art. 

She has no trouble in finding the picture. When she enters 


1?2 


THE BAHKER^S DAUGHTER. 


the salon she procures a catalogue. She looks over the 
names, tier heart gives a bound as her eyes fall upon the 
name that was once the dearest on earth to her. So much of 
what the count told her is true. Harold Routledge has a 
picture on exhibition here. In a few minutes she is standing 
before it, and she knows that Count do Carojae has told her 
the whole truth. A bright girlish face looks at her from the 
canvas. It does not bear such a striking resemblance to the 
sad-faced woman she is to-day as it does to the Lilian who de- 
lighted in tormenting the artist. Oh! those happy days of 
girlhood, when Harold Routledge was her king! 

“ Alas! is it only in some bright past 

That love can be perfect and bliss secure? 

Oh! days of delight that flew by too fast, 

Leaving the present too empty and poor!” 

Could it be that the white face she saw in her mirror 
this morning was ever as glowing with happiness as the 
face before her on the canvas? Poor, dear Harold! here 
is proof that he has not forgotten her. A sigh escapes her 
lips as a voice at her side says: 

“ Ah! the resemblance does strike Madame Strebelow.^^ 

Lilianas thoughts were so intent on the subject before her 
that she did not hear any one approach. She is startled, and 
she feels her face burn as she turns and encounters Count de 
Carojae. 

“ Pardon, madame; 1 have surprised— startled you,'^ he 
says, bowing low before her. 

Lilian feels his scrutinizing glances, as they pass from her 
crimson face to the canvas, and from the canvas back again 
to her face. She sees that he tries to smile and look pleasant 
as he speaks, though his face is livid and his voice choking 
with suppressed rage. What right has the count to act in 
this manner? Lilian believes that he was here to watch her 
this morning, and she is not mistaken. She recovers her self- 
possession at once, and she says, with a hauteur that goads the 
count to madness: 

“ There is a resemblance^ Count de Carojae, but not very 
striking at present. Many years ago that picture might have 
been painted for me. Please remember. Count de Carojae, 
that Mr. Routledge and myself were playmates, and I havenT 
the least doubt some remembrance of me must have guided 
his brush. I can never fail to be interested in the work of so 
old a friend; and since you told me last night the picture Mr. 
Routledge had on exhibition here resembled me, I have been 


THE BANiCER^S DAUGHTER, 


123 


— as vvo women say — just dying of curiosity to see it, as, from 
your punctual attendance here this morning, you must have 
conjectured/^ 

The count has lost all control of his temper by the time 
Lilian co^i eludes speaking. 

“ So old a friend,’^ he begins, sneeringly. “You say many 
years ago that picture might have been painted for you. Ma- 
dame is very different from the rest of her sex. She would 
make herself very old. Only a few years back madame’s face 
was very Jike that girffs,’^ pointing to the picture. “ It was 
not a remembrance of the davs when madame and Eoutledge 
were children at play that guided his brush. What right had 
he to paint this picture? What right has he to place it here, 
to torment and madden me with recollections of the days 
when he cheated me out of my happiness?’^ he asks, in a 
frenzy. 

“ Sir,^^ says Lilian, with a withering glance that increases 
the coun/s frenzy, “ if you would know what right Mr. Rout- 
ledge has to choose this subject, I refer you to him.^’’ 

“Ah! if he ever crosses my path, he shall answer— 

“ In the meantime,^^ says Lilian, not heeding his furious 
interruption, “ I will leave you to recover a cool and collected 
state of mind. When you have accomplished, that feat, be 
good enough to consider this question: What right has the 
Count de Carojae to address the wife of Mr. Strebelow as he 
has this morning?’’ 

She walks away from him with a queenly air. Baffled and 
enraged, he stands and watches her until she disappears from 
the salon. 

“ By heavens! she defies me,” he says, through his clinched 
teeth. “ And she knows that I have guessed her secret. The 
wife of Mr. Strebelow; she does well to remind me of that, 
she thinks,” he continues, sneeringly. “ Strebelow believes 
his wife loves him. I wonder how he would act if his eyes 
were opened to the truth? Ah, if Routledge.was here, what 
a revenge I could have!” 

He slowly leaves the salon. Reaching the outer air, he does 
not quicken his pace, but walks on with no particular destina- 
tion in view, nursing his wrath instead of making an effort to 
banish it. He thought, by surprising Lilian before the pict- 
ure this morning, he would place her in his power; but in this 
he is foiled. 

“Foiled!” he repeats to himself, as he moves on with his 
eyes upon the ground. 

“ Good-morning, count.” 


124 


THE banker's daughter. 


At the sound of that voice the count quickly raises his eyes, 
and wheels around to detain its owner, who is passing him. 
His face lights with satisfaction as he says; 

“ Goofl-niorning, Monsieur Strebelow. How was it 3 ^ou 
didn't give a fellov a chance to speak to you last nighti* I 
saw you when 1 was speaking to Madame Strebelow, but be- 
fore! could make my way to you you were gone." 

“ Mrs. Strebelow was not feeling quite well, and on that ac- 
count we left early. By the bye, count, if I had had a chance 
to speak to you last night I would have asked a favor." 

“ Is it too late now?" 

“ Oh, no. I believe Monsieur Montvillais, the celebrated 
art critic, is an intimate friend of yours?" 

“You are right; we are bosom friends." 

“ La Roberteau sent home Mrs. Strebelow's picture yester- 
day. 1 would very much like Montvillais to pass his opinion 
on it. Do you think you could persuade him to call with 
you?" 

“ Nothing easier to accomplish, my dear friend. I shall 
see Montvillais to-day, and I will let you know when he can 
call." 

“ Many thanks." 

“I am happy to be able to accommodate you. Is the 
painting a good one of Madame Strebelow?" 

“ Well, rather," answers Strebelow, as if he isn't quite sure 
that it is a true likeness. 

“ The picture that Routledge has on exhibition in the salon 
is very like Madame Strebelow, don't you think so?" 

The count can scarce control himself as he asks the ques- 
tion and watches its effect upon Strebelow. 

“ What picture? I haven't seen it;" and a faint look of 
surprise appears on John Strebelow 's face. 

“ you surely have heard a great many remark that there is 
a picture in the salle very like Madame Strebelow? You 
can't be very curious, monsieur, or you would have seen it be- 
fore this." 

“ You are the only one 1 have heard mention it. You sav 
it is by Routledge, the American artist?" 

“ The same; of course you know him?" 

“Routledge," says John Strebelow, smiling. “Oh, I 
know him well, and he and Mrs. Strebelow played together 
when they were children. I am gratified to think that he has 
not forgotten her~that is, if he has done the face justice," 
he continues, laughing. “ I must see this picture and iudffe 
for myself." , ^ ^ 


THE BANKER DAT;(?^HTER. 


125 


The count is again foiled. Inwardly he is in a rage over 
John Sfcrebelow taking the news in the manner he does. Blind 
fool! he thinks, and with a grin he says: 

“ Madame Strebelow was judging for herself when I saw 
her in the salon this morning. S^he seemed very interested in 
the American artist’s work when I came upon her.” 

The change that comes over John Strebelow ’s face is very 
slight, but there is a change, and the count can not conceal 
his smile of triamph. 

Lilian has refused to drive with him this morning, and the 
count has seen her in the salon. This is strange. 

“Ah! then Mrs. Strebelow must have heard about the pict- 
ure? Well, she will tell me whether she thinks it is like her,” 
says Strebelow, carelessly. 

“ You had better see it for yourself,” says the count. 

When Strebelow leaves the count his mind is again in a dis- 
turbed state. There was something in the count’s voice and 
smile that is very disagreeable to him. Strange, very strange, 
that his wife should refuse to go out with him, and iu a little 
more than an hour later meet the Count de Carojae in the 
salon! He does not connect his wife’s conduct, the picture, 
or the count’s insinuating tone and smile with Eoutledge. If 
the count had mentioned Routledge’s Christian name, John 
Strebelow’s thoughts might have taken a different turn. Per- 
haps the name, Harold, would remind him of his wife’s dream, 
but, as it is, he hasn’t the faintest thought of Routledge as he 
leaves the count. 

“ Strange,” he repeats, “ very strange! What am. I say- 
ing? What am I thinking? I believe, since last night, an 
evil spirit has possessed me. What is there strange about 
Lilian going to the salon? Perhaps it is only since 1 left her 
that she heard of this picture, and was curious to see it at 
once; and she could not help the count being there.” 

John "Strebelow settles his mind to rest once more, but in- 
stead of going about his business, he directs his footsteps to- 
ward home. Is it because he is anxious to hear what his wife 
has to say about the picture? If so, he would be doomed to 
disappointment but for a telegram that is handed him by a 
messenger, who meets him on the steps of his dwelling. The 
telegram states that Lilian’s father has arrived, and the scene 
that follows this joyful news makes John Strebelow forget for 
the present what he came home in such haste to learn. 


Uij 


THE BAHKEK’iS daughter. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE DEM OK DOUBT. 

As Lilian hurries home from the salon, she thinks she ought 
to mention the picture to her husband. He must surely hear 
of it from some quarter if he has not already heard of it, seen 
it perhaps. This thought strikes her as very probable. John 
Strebelovv has always avoided the mere mention of Routledge^s 
name, she thinks; and how silly she would be to mention the 
picture to him. If they must talk it over, let^ him introduce 
the subject. There is something else on Lilian’s mind that 
she thinks she ought to mention to her husband, and that is, 
the Count de Carojae’s conduct toward her. After the man- 
ner in vvhich he addressed her this morning, she wishes never 
again to receive him in her own home. But, much as she de- 
sires to cut the count, on giving the matter serious thought 
she shrinks from complaining to her husband. She knows 
that the count is a bad man; that he would leave no stone un- 
turned to be revenged on her. Ho is the sort of man to seek 
a quarrel with her husband and make her name public talk, 
and rather than that she would suffer anything in silence. 

“ Well, it won’t be long,” she says to herself. “ 1 shall 
tell John to-day that I want to return to New York with my 
father, and in the meantime I shall avoid the count as much 
as possible.” 

When Lilian said it won’t be long, she did not think what a 
day might bring forth. 

She arrives at home, changes her street attire for a house- 
dress, and is singing for Natalie when her husband comes in 
with the telegram. 

“ 1 have joyful news for you, Lilian.” 

“ The big ship has come in,” cries Natalie, breaking away 
from her mother, “ and grandpa is coming!” 

“ Is he, John?” 

“ Yes, my darling. Evidently he wishes to surprise us, for 
he states no time to meet him. He must be on his way here 
now.” 

“ Thank God that he has arrived safely,” says Lilian, her 
face brightening. 

“ You shall not be disappointed to-day, Natalie,” says John 
Strebelow, patting his child on the head. 

“ Oh, I’m so glad, so glad!” says the child, dancing from 
her father to her mother. 


TH-R BAITKETI’S DAUGHTER. 12'J' 

The little family looks very happy as a white-haired, ruddy- 
faced gentleman in a great-coat appears at the open door, and, 
unperceived, looks in upon them. It is a pleasant sight for 
him. His face beams with pleasure as he says to himself: 

“ They are happy. I wish Aunt Fanny were here to wit- 
ness the falsification of her prophecy, the justification of 
mine;'^ then bursting into the room, he cries, in a voice trem- 
bling with emotion: “ My dear children, hov7 are you?’^ 

“ Father!^^ and Lilian is clasped in the banker’s arms. 

“ John,^’ and Lawrence Westbrook turns from his daughter 
and grasps his son-in-law’s hand, ‘‘ believe me, 1 am glad to 
see you looking so well and happy.” 

“ And I can say the same to you,” says Strebelow, warmly 
shaking the banker’s hand. “ And here is Natalie impatient 
for a recognition. ” 

“Bless me! Natalie, how you have grown,” says the 
banker, taking the child in his arms and kissing her. “ Of 
course you don’t remember grandpa?” 

“ But I’ve talked so much about you to her that she thinks 
she does,” says Lilian, smiling. 

“ Isn’t your hair white?” says the child, smoothing her 
grandfather’s head. 

“ Whiter, you think, than when you saw it last?” laughs 
the banker. 

“ Natalie was just a year old when we left America,” says 
Strebelow. 

“ Yes, we have been parted three long years,” says the 
banker. 

Aunt Fanny, Mr. Babbage, and a few others have been 
asked for, when Lilian says: 

“ Come, Natalie, you must be dressed.” 

“ I will ring for Lisette,” says Strebelow, going to the bell. 

“No; 1 shall dress her, John.” 

“ Why can not Lisette?” 

“ I don’t want Lisette, papa. Mamma said she would 
dross me herself for grandpa,” says Natalie. 

“Oh, very well, very well,” laughs Strebelow; “your 
mamma shall dress you.” 

“ We won’t be long away,” says Lilian, lightly, as she hur- 
ries off with Natalie by therhand. 

“ Well, John,” says the banker, taking a chair, “ it must 
have been pretty smooth sailing with you for the past three 
years; you are looking younger than when you left America.” 

“ So every one tells me. I’ll begin to believe it is so,” 
laughs Strebelow. 


128 


THE banker’s daughter. 


“ Lilian and the child look well and happy?” says the 
banker. ^ . 

This question is put for the purpose of drawing John Strehe- 
low out. Lawrence Westbrook is anxious to know whether 
his daughter has learned to be content and happy with the 
man to whom she sold herself. 

“ Well, I. have done everything in my power to make Lilian 
happy. Sometimes 1 think 1 have succeeded, and again I see 
a look of sadness in her eyes that I can not account for;” and 
John Strebelow sighs as he thinks of how unhappy Lilian has 
made him in the last twenty-four hours. 

“Your anxiety to make your wife happy is so great, John, 
that you imagine at times that she is not happy.” 

John Strebelow shakes his head, and his father-in-law says: 

“ It is all imagination on your part when you think she is 
not happy — all imagination, take my word for it. ” 

“ Her heart seems wrapped up in her, child,” says Strebe- 
low. 

“Ah! I see how it is,” laughs the banker: “ you are jeal- 
ous of the little one. Don’t you know, my dear fellow, that 
the husband is always number one until the baby comes? then 
he is number two.” 

Strebelow laughs as he says: 

“ Perhaps you are right. But tell me something about your- 
self. What sort of sailing has it been with you since we 
parted?” 

“Smooth, my boy, smooth; and our bark was never in a 
more trim condition — ” 

“ Madame Brown,” says a servant at the door, and the 
rustle of silken attire is heard, and in another moment Flor- 
ence sails into the room. 

The gentlemen rise to greet her. For an instant Florence 
stands, her eyes wide, open, her hands raised in amazement; 
then stepping forward, she cries, in so earnest a manner that 
the gentlemen can not refrain from smiling: 

“ The Marquis de Westbrook!” 

The banker takes his new title as if it rightfully belonged 
to him, and as he holds Florence’s hand for a moment, he 
says: 

“ How do you do, Florence? I am delighted to see you. ” 

“Oh! I do splendidly. How is everything in New York?” 

“ I must take a little time to answer that question.’' 

“ And how is the Duke de Strebelow to-day?” 

“ Quite well, thank you, Mrs. Brown,” says John Strebe- 
low, trying to keep his face straight. 


THE BANKER'S HAUGHTER. 


129 


“ And where* is the duchess? I hope her highness is well 
to-day./; 

“ Lilian is very well; she will be here presently. With 
what princely generosity, Mrs. Brown, you lavish your titles 
on us poor Republicans,^^ says Strebelow, smiling. 

“Republicans? How I hate them!'^ says Florence, with 
scornful emphasis. “ Imagine my feelings when 1 am intro- 
duced to a duchess or a marquise as plain Mrs. Brown — ugh!^^ 
and Florence raises her hands and rolls up her eyes in heart- 
felt disgust. 

The gentlemen shake with suppressed laughter, and when 
John Strebelow can control his voice, he says: 

“ And how is your royal consort, the Prince do Brown, to- 
day?- 

“ Brown is over seventy-five, you know, and he has the 
gout — the gout in its most aristocratic form. If he were a 
descendant of William the Conqueror he could not have it 
worse,- says Florence, with a sigh and a woful expression of 
countenance. 

The gentlemen laugh outright now, and Florence, raising 
her finger warningly, cries: 

“ Hush! he’s coming.— 

“Who?- says the banker. 

“ The Prince de Brown. His royal highness made such 
slow time coming up (he stairs that I ran away from him. 
Oh! Lilian’s picture has come home!” cries Florence, as she 
spies a beautiful painting of . Lilian standing on an easek 
“ Isn’t it lovely? And how like Lilian! AVhat do you think 
about it. Marquis de Westbrook ?” 

“ Ah! yes; I meant to have called your attention to the 
picture before,” says Strebelow. 

This is the picture that John Strebelow wishes Montvillais 
to see. 

The banker puts on his spectacles. 

“It is finely done,” he says; and then a squeaking voice 
calls: 

“ Florence, Florence!” and the banker turns quickly around 
to see Mr. Brown. 

“ Florence, you — you got up before me, didn’t you?” 

“ Only a moment or two, dear,” coming forward to meet 
her lord. “ See who is here.” 

“ Westbrook! Why, my dear friend, this is unexpected;” 
and leaning heavily on his cane, he reaches out his hand to 
the banker. 


130 


THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER, 


“ My dear Brown, 1 am glad to see you. 1 hope I find you 
well.^’ 

“1 — I am not so well — to-day, says the old gentleman, 
who has not yet recovered the breath he lost in coming up 
the stairs. 

“ What is the matter, Mr. Brown says Strebelow, who 
always humors the old man. 

“ Oh, nothing — nothing but a slight attack of the gout. 

“ If that is all— 

“ That is all, that is all, my dear Strebelow. 1 shall be 
quite well again to-morrow. 

“ Of course you will, dear;’^ and Florence smiles at John 
Strebelow behind her husband’s back. 

“ I declare, coming up those stairs has been too much for 
me. I’ll go into the next room and lie upon the sofa for 
awhile. You know, Westbrook, this is Liberty Hall; one can 
run into Strebelow’s and lie down when one pleases.” 

“ Certainly, certainly,” says the banker. 

“ And you will come into the next room with me, and tell 
me all about New York, Westbrook?” 

“ With pleasure,” says the banker. 

“ Oh, that will be so nice! Let me help you, dear.” And 
Florence, glad to get her husband off her hands, assists him 
into the next room. 

Making him comfortable on the sofa, she leaves him with 
the banker, and returning to the salon, she finds John Strebe- 
low there alone. 

“ Nothing, nothing but the gout!” she says, making a wry 
face. 

Florence never fails to amuse John Strebelow. He tries to 
look serious as he says: 

“ I haven’t the least doubt that Brown will keep on having 
attacks of the gout for the next fifty years.” 

“ Fifty years!” cries Florence, aghast. 

“ Why, of course,” says Strebelow. 

“ Very well, Mr. Strebelow; I’ll pay you back for this,” 
says Florence, mentally, as she recovers herself; and turning 
to Lilian’s picture, she says aloud: 

“ Isn’t she beautiful? No wonder she has so many ad- 
mirers. Aren’t you jealous, Mr. Strebelow?” turning to him 
with a smile. 

“ Jealous! why should I be?” says Strebelow, laughing. 

“ Why shouldn’t you be?” says Florence, quickly. ” There, 
for instance, is the Count de Carojae; everybody knows that 
he is desperately in love with your wife.” 


THE BAHKER^S DAUGHTER. 131 

If Florence’s careless words had been a knife in his heart, it 
would not have caused a keener pang. 

“ There, I think that is tit for tat,” says Florence to her- 
self. 

John Strebelow’s face does not reflect the pain at his heart, 
and when he speaks Florence is disappointed. 

“ The Count de Carojae thinks it his duty, as a French 
gentleman, to make love to my wife in compliment to my 
taste.” 

“ And your duty as an American husband?” cries Flor- 
ence, who is determined not to let Strebelow have the best of 
the argument. 

“ To remember that I have an American wife,” says 
Strebelow, with a smile. 

Florence opens her black eyes in amazement, and with an 
earnestness that makes John Strebelow smile, she says, as if 
speaking to herself: 

“ 1 wonder if Brown has the same faith in my nationality?” 

“T shall let Lilian know you are here,” says John Strebe- 
low, who wants to get away from Florence; but, as he reaches 
the door, he can not resist "turning back to say: 

“ Talking of nationality in connection with the duty of a 
wife, Madame Brown ought to be a born French woman.” 

Florence’s laugh rings through the room as John Strebe- 
low disappears. 

“ Bah! Strebelow is too phlegmatic for a fight,” she says, 
on finding herself alone, “ and 1 am just dying of ennui.” 

“ Count de Carojae,” announces a servant, and in an in- 
stant the mischievous light is again in Florence’s eyes. 

Count de Carojae looks anything but pleased on beholding 
the smiling face of Mrs. Brown. 

“ Good-day, Count de Carojae. The Duchess de Strebelow 
will be here presently. In the meantime, I shall do my best 
to entertain you.” 

“You are very kind, Madame Brown,” says the count, 
bowing low; “ but pray do not exert yourself on my account. ” 

“ Now, come, count, don’t be cross,” says Florence, with a 
smile that she knows irritates the count. “ See what we 
have here. ” 

“ Madame Strebelow’s picture!” and the count walks over 
to the picture, the scowl disappearing from his face. 

“ I thought the sight of that face would put you in good 
humor. Now, isn’t it beautiful?” says Florence, with a tan- 
talizing laugh. 


132 


THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER. 


The count scarce hears what Florence says, so interested is 
he in the picture. 

“ It is lovely!’^ he murmurs to himself; but Florence over- 
hears him, and looking up in his face, she says: 

“ I hope its beauty will console you for the loss of the 
original.^'’ 

“ Madame Brown, I do not understand, says the count, 
his face flushed with anger. 


“ How stupid you are, count. Perhaps you think I don’t 
know all about it. Mrs. Strebelow gave you the mitten;’' 
and Florence laughs in the count’s face. 

“ The mitten?” he says, as if he does not understand the 


expression. 

“ Yes, she gave you the mitten.” 

“ The mitten — the glove without fingers. What do you 
mean, Madame Brown?” 

“ I mean that Koutledge was too much for you in New 
York;” and Florence’s’ tantalizing laugh rings out again. 
“6'Gcre/” mutters the count, as his face grows purple 


with rage. 

“ The rides in the park, you know,” continues Florence, 
looking knowingly at him, her eyes dancing with mischief. 
“Count,” very seriously, “ you 'had better transfer your 
affection to me. ” 

The count bites his lips to keep back the impolite words 
that rise to them. 

“ For you know,” continues Florence, “ that you will 
stand no chance with the Duchess de Strebelow, now that 
your rival, Routledge, is in Paris.” 

“ Routledge in Paris!” 

“ So I heard this morning.” 

Florence’s pent-up laughter rings out now, and it is some 
moments before she can control herself to say : 

“ What’s the matter, count? What have 1 said?” 

The count’s eyes are like sparks of fire, and his face has the 
expression of a fiend as he says, in a hoarse whisper: 

“ Let Harold Routledge beware! He shall not play his 
New York pranks on me in Paris.” 

If Florence was a sensitive, thoughtful woman, she might 
be frightened at the count’s manner. But if ever Florence 
thinks, it is after the mischief is done. The count’s fiendish 
looks can not intimidate her, and she goes on, recklessly: 

“ Count, I believe this moment you could kill Routledge.” 

“ I am too polite to contradict a lady,” says the county 


THE banker’s daughter. 133 

bowing low, the murderous spark still burning in his black 
eyes. 

Count, you are as keen as a razor, and just as sharp,” 
says Florence, mockingly. ‘‘ Well, I must go to the Prince 
de Brown. He may have fallen asleep, and I must cover his 
poor old bald head with a silk handkerchief, or he will catch 
cold. Entertain yourself, count. ” 

With a wave of her hand toward Lilian’s picture, and a 
tormenting little laugh, she walks over to the adjoining room. 

“ She is a she-devil!” says the count, in a fury, as he fol- 
lows Florence’s advice, and takes up his position once more 
before Lilian’s picture. 

Florence, full of mischievous humor, does not leave the 
room, but hiding herself behind a pillar near the door of the 
adjoining room, watches the count. She hears him call her a 
ghe-devil, and she has to cover her mouth with her handker- 
chief to smother her laughter. 

The count’s rage_ vanishes as he stands before the picture, 
and the fiendish expression of his face gives way to tender- 
ness as he says, aloud : 

“ She is beautiful, very beautiful. Every day I love her 
more.” 

Here Lilian enters the room, and hearing the count’s voice 
and seeing his position for a moment she stands too surprised 
to speak. 

Florence sees her, and, her face convulsed. with inward mer- 
riment, her handkerchief still covering her mouth, beckons to 
Lilian to be silent. 

“ Such lovely eyes!” continues the. count. 

If Lilian sees Florence’s motions, she does not heed them, 
for she exclaims, in a voice ringing with indignation: 

“ I beg pardon, Courft de Carojae!” and a ludicrous scene 
follows. 

The count, who supposes himself to be alone in the room, 
turns quickly, and sees on one side a woman haughtily erect, 
with flashing eyes; on the other, a face convulsed with 
laughter, laughter that can not longer be restrained, and 
Florence puts her hand to her side as the tears roll down her 
cheeks. 

“ Oh, count, you have nearly been the — death of me, and 
I’m sure the duchess is shocked!” cries Florence. _ - 

The count was never so utterly confused. His face is crim- 
son as he turns to Lilian and says: 

“ Madame Strebelow, I beg your pardon.” 

Lilian turns away without deigning a reply. She is highly 


134 


THE BAHKER^S DAUGHTER. 


indigaant because the couut has called so soon after what 
passed between them in the salle this morning. 

“ Wilt nothing I can do check this man^s impudence?^' 
she says to herself. 

As the count addresses Lilian, Florence steps before the 
picture, and mimicking the count’s voice, she says: 

“ She is beautiful, very beautiful! Such lovely eyes!” 

The count walks to the window in a rage, and Florence, 
turning suddenly from the picture, continues: 

“ Count, you made me forget to put the handkerchief on 
the Prince de Brown’s poor old bald head;” and laughing 

G leefully, she trips from the room and as she disappears John 
trebelow enters. * 

He starts perceptibly as he crosses the threshold and takes 
in the scene before him, and his heart turns to ice in his 
bosom. The count is standing at the window, his face hidden 
from view; Lilian, a strange expression on her face, her lips 
drawn in a tense line, is standing with her hand on the man- 
tel, and her eyes fixed upon the blazing coals. What can he 
think but at his approach a sudden stillness has fallen, that 
between the man standing there, hiding his face, and his wife, 
there has been a scene of some kind? He can not help think- 
ing this, but the thought no sooner comes then he tries to 
crush it, and he says, in a voice that he struggles to make 
natural: 

“ Where is your father, Lilian?” 

Surely, he thinks, as she raises her eyes to his to reply, it is 
indignation that is in her face. 

At the sound of John Strebelow’s voice the count turns 
quickly. He tries to look pleasant, but he does not deceive 
otrebelow as he says: 

“ Ah, Monsieur Strebelow, 1 called' to let you know that I 
have seen Monsieur Montvillais, and he will call with pleasure 
to-morrow afternoon, if the time is agreeable to you.” 

“ Thanks, Count de Carojae; any time that will be conven- 
ient for Monsieur Montvillais will be agreeable. ” 

“ Oh, dear! it was just as I thought,” says Florence, re- 
turning to the room. “ There was the prince asleep, and his 
dear, bald head uncovered. I know he’ll have an awful fit of 
sneezing. 1 declare,” with a sigh, “ I have to take as much 
care of Brown as if he were a baby.” 

On Florence’s entrance the count thinks it is the wisest 
policy to take his leave as soon as possible, which he does. 

“ Who is Monsieur Montvillais?” says Lilian, when the count 
is gone. 


THE BAKKER’s daughter. 


135 


“A great art critic, afid friend of the count’s. I liave 
invited him, through the count, to come here and criticise the 
painting before it is taken to your boudoir and hidden forever 
from curious eyes.” 

“ This is the excuse, then, the count has had for calling to- 
day,” says Lilian to herself. 

John Strebelow watches his wife. He is sure that her con- 
duct toward the count was cold and indignant. John Strebe- 
low’s mind is a torture to him to-day. He will not allow him- 
self to think anything wrong of his wife, and yet she is certainly 
changed sinco'yesterday. Can it be that the count’s attention 
is disagreeable to her? 

“ Yes, yes, that must be it; and dreading a scene, she is 
keeping the knowledge from me. Yes, that is it, and I shall 
watch and find out for myself.” 

John Strebelow thinks he has reached a solution of his wife’s 
conduct; yet, instead of peace being partly restored to his mind, 
his torture increases; for doubt is lurking there still, though 
he himself will not acknowledge it. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“ IS IT FATE?” 

“ John, did father tell you how long he intends to stay 
here?” says Lilian to her husband the following morning. 

“ About a month, he said; but we must induce him to re- 
main longer.” 

“ 1 would rather not,” says JLilian, hesitatingly. 

‘ ‘ Do you mean that you are in a hurry to get rid of your 
father, Lilian?” says Strebelow, smiling. 

“ I do not wish to get rid of him — I am ashamed to tell you, 

■ John, for you will think me a very capricious, discontented 
mortal; I wish we could return to Hew York at the end of a 
month, with father. John, I believe I will never want to 
leave America again.” 

John Strebelow’s eyes are fixed on his wife’s face as he says: 

“ You thought you would be content a whole year, at the 
least, in Paris. ” 

“ And 1 think I would, John, but I have become thoroughly 
disgusted with the attention shown me here.” 

“Thank God!” is Strebelow’s mental comment, as once 
again the doubt that has been torturing him takes flight. H^ 
was right; the count’s attention is disagreeable to Lilian. She 
has made a tacit acknowledgment of it this moment. His 
handsome face lights up with a smile as he kisses her, saying: 


W ] tht: bakker's daughter. 

“Lilian, it shall be as you wish. We will leave for New 
York in a month.’’ 

Lilian looks up at the noble face, and bursts into tears. 

“ You are so good to me/’ she says, in answer to his look 
of surprise. 

“ No better, darling, than I ought to be,” he says, patting 
the golden head; “ and now I must be off with your father; 
he must attend to some business this morning, and wants me 
along. We must be at home to Montvillais this afternoon, 
and to-morrow we go sight-seeing.” 

“ I shall watch the count,” John Strebelow says to himself 
as he leaves his wife; “ and though he were ten times over the 
noted duelist he is, he shall answer to me for any effrontery I 
can discover in his conduct toward my wife.” 

While Strebelow is waiting for the banker to transact some 
business at the American Legation, he falls in with a couple 
of friends, and as he has an hour or more on his hands, he ac- 
cepts an invitation to go with them to their club. 'Chey enter 
the reading-room of the club, and John Strebelow is talking. 
His frank, pleasant voice must have attracted the attention of 
a gentleman sitting reading a short distance from where he, 
Strebelow, and his friends stand to finish their conversation. 
At the sound of his voice the gentleman suddenly lowers his 
paper and looks at Strebelow; then he quickly raises the paper 
again, as if to conceal his face, and he can hear the loud throb- 
bing of his heart. 

The stranger that is disturbed at the sight of Strebelow has 
a face that one would turn to look upon a second time, a face 
that is still handsome, despite the ravaging'work of sorrow 
upon it, a face that baffles one to tell his age. He may have 
breathed in this world a little more than a quarter of a century, 
though he looks fully ten years older. 

“ It is John Strebelow,” he says to himself; “ and how well 
he looks. I wonder if she is in Paris? Of course she is. I 
struggled against coming to Paris, but I could not stay away. 
Something that I could not resist impelled me hither. Here 
I am, and such a weight has been upon me since 1 came here. 
My God, is this Fate?” 

Again he lowers his paper and looks at Strebelow. 

“ Shall I speak to him? I should like to hear something of 
her. Is she wellT-happy? Bah! I am mad to want to open 
the festering wounds. Yet how I have longed to see her once 
mbre — see her once more, and make my life harder to bear! 1 
will flee from temptation,” he says, rising, and throwing aside 
his paper, he leaves the room. 


THE UANKEU'S DAUGHTER. 137 

As he is passing out of the door, John Strebelow catches a 
glimpse of his face over the shoulder of one of his friends. 

“ Excuse me a moment,^’ he says; “ 1 think the gentleman 
who has just gone out is an old friend whom I have not seen 
for years. 

He hurries from the room, and on the steps that lead to the 
pavement he overtakes the stranger. 

“ Eoutledge — is it Routledge?"° he says, fearing that he has 
made a mistake, after he has touched the gentleman's arm. 

Routledge, for it is indeed he, turns and holds out a trem- 
bling hand, saying: 

“ How do you. do, John Strebelow?" 

“ Well, this is a surprise!" and Strebelow gives the trem- 
bling hand a hearty shake. “lam glad to see you, Routledge. 
Are you staying in Paris?" 

‘ ‘ I arrived yesterday, and shall stay but a day or two longer. ' ' 

“ Lilian is here — " 

“ I hope Mrs. Strebelow is well?" says Harold, for polite- 
ness' sake. 

“ Oh, very well. You must call upon her." 

“ I'm afraid I have not the time, as I must leave Paris with- 
out delay," answers Harold, hesitatingly. 

“ Oh, but you must make time to call upon your old play- 
mate. She will be offended when she hears that you are in 
Paris and did not see her. " 

Harold Routledge's mind is at last at rest upon one point. 
John Strebelow has never been informed that Lilian and him- 
self had ever been anything more than friends; and he is 
thankful now for Strebelow's ignorance. He can talk to him 
more freely, and feel more friendly toward him. 

While Strebelow was urging him to call upon his wife, the in- 
sane desire to see Lilian once more took possession of him 
again. 

“ I should like to call upon Mrs. Strebelow," he falters, 
“ but-" 

“ Oh, never mind the buts. 1 wish you would make time 
to come this afternoon. We are to have Montvillais, the art 
critic, and a few friends to see a handsome painting 1 have of 
Lilian. I should like you to see it." 

“ When there are a number of persons about, our manner 
will not be noticed. It is a good opportunity for me to see 
her," Harold argues with himself; and he says to Strebelow: 

“ I shall endeavor to call.'^ 

“ Talking of Lilian's picture," says Strebelow, smiling, “ I 
hear that you — " 


138 


THE BANKEE'S daughter. 


He is about to refer to the picture on exhibition, but is in- 
terrupted by the appearance of his friends, whom he left in the 
reading-room. 

“ 1 suppose my friends thought that 1 had deserted them,” 
he says, laughing. “ Here they come.” 

“ Then I shall take your address and not detain you longer,” 
says Harold, glad to get awa 3 ^ 

“ This is madness,” says Routledge to himself, as he leaves 
Strebelow. “ I will not go to Strebelow’s. I will leave Paris 
at once.” 

This is what Routledge says, but Routledge never had any 
strength of will; if he had, he would have torn Lilian’s image 
from his heart long ago, and tried to forget her, instead, of 
nursing a love that he knows is hopeless. Instead of leaving 
Paris at o'hce, he remains and plays with the temptation to 
see his lost love, until he can no longer resist it, and then he 
asks himself again: 

“ Is this Fate?” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE husband’s CONDUCT MISCONSTRUED. 

When John Strebelow returns home he finds Florence with 
his wife in the salon. 

“ Bon jour, Duke de Strebelow,” says the little brunette, 
who is sitting with her bonnet on. 

“ Good- day, Mrs. Brown. I hope the prince is relieved 
from his slight attack of the gout.” 

“Relieved! To-day he is so much worse that he cannot 
leave the sofa. He’s dreadfully afraid that he can not attend 
the American minister’s reception to-morrow nights I trust 
he’ll be better, though,” says Florence, with a sigh of resig- 
nation. 

“ Never fear; he will be your escort to-morrow night, in 
spite of the gout. The Prince de Brown has an indomitable 
will, you know. Lilian, I thought, the count and his friend 
would be here before me,” says Strebelow, consulting his 
watch. 

“Florence has been waiting very impatiently for them,” 
answers Lilian. 

“ Yes; I fear the prince will awake from his nap and miss 
me; but I would like to hear what the critic has to say about 
the picture before 1 go,” says Florence. 

“Ah! I have news that will interest both of you,” says 
Strebelow, as if suddenly recollecting something. 


THE banker's daughter. 139 

“ What is it?'' cries Florence, who is always ready for news. 

“ Your old friend Koutledge is in Paris. • I met him this 
morning — " 

“ So I heard yesterday," interrupts Florence. “ I meant to 
have told you, Lilian," adds Florence, looking at Lilian; but 
that lady is busy looking for something on the floor. 

“ What did you lose, Lilian?" says her husband, stej^ping 
to her side. “ Allow me to look for it." 

“ Oh, it is nothing. I thought I dropped — my handker- 
chief," says Lilian; and Florence titters, and gives Lilian a 
look that says: “ 1 understand."^ 

“ Is Mr. Eoutledge to remain in Paris?" asks Florence. 

“No; he leaves within a day or two,” answers Strebelow. 

“ And you asked him to call?" says Lilian, trying to com- 
mand her voice as she fixes her eyes on her husband's face. 

“ Certainly; but you don't think he would leave Paris with- 
out calling on his old playmate?" 

The eyes that are fixed on John Strebelow 's face flash as 
Lilian thinks: “This is the love, the respect, you have for 
me, to invite Eoutledge here, to throw him in my way once 
more!" 

The flash of her eyes and curl of her lip are not lost on John 
Strebelow, though he can not interpret them now; and, just 
as Florence is expecting a scene. Count de Carojae and M. 
Montvillais are announced. 

M. Montvillais is introduced, and receives John Strebelow 's 
thanks for calling. After a few minutes' conversation the 
critic, pointing to the easel, says: 

“ I presume that is the picture?" 

“ Yes," answers Strebelow; “ will you examine it now?" 

The critic walks over to the picture, and as he puts on his 
eyeglasses the count takes up a position on one side of him 
and John Strebelow on the othei:, 

“ Now for the learned opinion," says Florence, takng a 
seat at the opposite side of the room near Lilian, where che 
settles herself to be an attentive listener. 

Lilian does not hear a word that is said. She can not get 
over her husband inviting Eoutledge to call. 

“But Harold won't come. I know he won't," she repeats 
to herself. 

“ Fine feeling," says the critic, aloud, as he examines the 
picture. “ Lacks color in the flesh tints." 

“ AYe know all about it now," says Florence, sarcastically. 

“ Mr. Eoutledge," says the servant at the door. 

The name falls like a thunderbolt upon Lilian; but for a 


140 


THE banker’s BArGHTER. 


moment only her heart sinks and her courage fails her, then 
she nerves herself for the ordeal before her. 

“ A.h, Routledge! 1 am glad you made time to call,^^ Lilian 
hears her husband say before she turns her face to meet 
Routledge, and her indignation over his remark, and the hos- 
pitable manner in which he welcomes the visitor crushes all 
other feeling for the time in her bosom. 

“ Ladies,^ ^ continues her husband, “ here is your old friend, 
Mr. Routledge. I believe you met Count de Carojae in New 
York?’^ 

“ Yes,^^ says Routledge, turning to the count; but there is a 
look on that gentleman’s face, as he steps back and bows dis- 
tantly, that makes the artist give him the merest recognition 
possible without attracting attention. 

The artist and critic are introduced, and the latter says: 

“ I know Monsieur Routledge by reputation, and I say here 
— of course 1 could not say the same in public — that latest 
work of yours is very good. ” 

“ (Sir,” said Routledge bowing haughtily, “ 1 shall respect 
your private opinion. ” 

“ Talk to the ladies, Routledge; I have already detained you 
from them too long,” says Strebelow, in order to change the 
drift of the conversation, “ and Monsieur Montvillais can 
finish his criticism.” 

The count, who has not uttered a word since Routledge en- 
tered the salon, is standing, his face hidden from view, before 
the picture. He partly turns now, on a pretense to make 
room for the critic and Strebelow, but his real purpose is to 
stand so that he can watch the meeting between Lilian and 
Routledge. 

“ Why, Florence! 1 suppose I should say Mrs. Brown,” 
says Routledge, turning from Strebelow, and standing face to 
face with Florence, who has risen to meet him. 

“ Mrs. Brown!” says Florence, in a tone of utter disgust as 
she gives the artist her hand. “Please call me Florence. 
Don’t you see Lilian?” 

Look which way he will, her face is before him since he en- 
tered the room. For a moment all the blood in his body seems 
to rush to his head. He thinks, “ What a fool I was to come 
here.” Lilian takes a step toward him, but he stands still, and 
bowing his head, says in a low voice: 

“How do you do, Mrs. Strebelow?” and Lilian only bows 
in return. 

Florence looks from one to the other, and imitating Rout- 
ledge’s voice, she bows to Lilian, saying: 


141 


THR EA-N-KER’S daughter. 

“ How do you do, Mrs. Skrebelow? Come, that is no way 
to meet after five years. Shake hands and make up.^' 

The critic is talking to her husband, and he does not hear 
what Florence is saying, but Lilian feels the count^s eyes, 
burning like two sparks of fire, upon her. It will never do to 
let Florence rattle On in this manner, she thinks, and stepping 
up to Harold, she says, giving him the tips of her fingers: 

“ How do you do, Mr. Eontledge.^^’ 

“ That is better, says Florence, laughing, “ and now we 
will listen to this Magnus Apollo on pictures, for I must be 
off in a few minutes. 

As she speaks, she walks over to the group at the picture. 
Lilian takes a chair on one side of the table, and Harold one 
on the other, both apparently listening with much interest to 
M. Montvillais. 

“ Don’t you think. Monsieur Montvillais, that there is a look 
of sadness in madame’s eyes?” asks the count, when the critic 
pauses — “ a look that betrays some secret sorrow?” 

There is a bitterness in the count’s voice that he can not 
conceal. John Strebelow notices jt, and looking at the count, 
he sees that he is enraged about something. 

“ Well, that is. easily explained,” answers the critic. “ The 
sad expression that certainly is in madame’s eye denotes a se- 
cret sorrow.” 

“ I was sure of it,” says the count; and no one mistakes his 
triumphant tone. 

John Strebelow looks at the critic in surprise. The count 
smiles, and walking over to the piano seats himself before it 
and picks the keys, while Florence, ready for a sensation, says: 

“ A secret sorrow. Monsieur Montvillais?” 

At this question Lilian bites her lips and the nails of her 
fingers sink into her soft palms; but Eoutledge sits, seemingly 
all attention, not a muscle of his face moving. 

” Yes, when the artist caught that expression of the eyes, 
madame’s thoughts were dwelling over that sorrow which was, 
perhaps, the premature crushing of—” 

“ What?” cries Florence, eagerly. 

“ Of a new bonnet,” says the critic, suavely. 

Lilian leans back in her chair; her nerves have been 
stretched to their utmost tension, and the reaction caused by 
this answer makes her feel faint. 

‘‘Ugh!” says Florence, turning from the critic in disap- 
pointment and disgust. 

John Strebelow smiles at the critic’s answer, but the count 


U2 


THE banker’s daughter. 


grits liis teeth and mentally curses Montvillais for making the 
secret sorrow the crushing of a new bonnet. 

He turns from the piano, a disagreeable smile upon his face, 
and in polished, insinuating tones, says: 

“ Monsieur Koutledge has been more fortunate in catching 
madame’s expression. The picture he has on exhibition in 
the salle is a much better likeness of madame than this one 
here.^^ 

“ The resemblance is accidental, says Routledge, coldly. 

“ Accidentally^ sneers the count. 

“ Ah, 1 have heard this likeness spoken of, Routledge,^’ 
says John Strebelow. 

“ Doubtless some memory of Mrs. Strebelow inspired it,^' 
says Harold, quietly, to Strebelow. 

“ Monsieur Koutledge must find memory a great trouble to 
him,yy says the count, in the same sneering tone. 

John Strebelow looks from the count to Koutledge. There 
is something wrong between these men, he thinks, or the 
count is trying to insult Koutledge in cold blood. 

As the count spoke, Lilian thought the air in the room 
would stifle her. She was sure she could not endure the con- 
versation another minute, when fortunately Florence speaks 
before Koutledge can reply to the count. 

“ Lilian, 1 must go, 1 have already stayed much longer 
than I intended. The prince will surely be calling for me. 
I suppose you will be at the Legation to-morrow rrightP^y 

“ Yes; father wishes us to go,’^ answers Lilian, with a des- 
perate effort to turn the conversation from the picture. 

“ Gentlemen, good-afternoon, says Florence; and as the 
gentlemen rise, John Strebelow says: 

“We will go to the smoking-room. Hot you, Koutledge; 
as you can not call again, we will leave you to talk over old 
times with Mrs. Strebelow. Come, count — Monsieur Mont- 
villais/y and Strebelow leads the way out of the salon. 

The count lingers, and as he. leaves the room says, with a 
derisive laugh: 

“ What a generous husband madame has.^^ 

For an instant the blood flows in a wave to Lilianys fair 
face, and her eyes flash, not at the countys insulting language, 
but her husbanflys conduct. 

“ What does he mean by leaving me alone with Harold 
Koutledge to talk over old times? Oh, this is despicable lyy 
says Lilian to herself. 

She is far, very far from being right in the construction she 
puts upon her husbandys conduct. John Strebelow saw that 


143 


THE BAKKEU’S DAUGHTER. 


the count was enraged — more, that his spleen was direc^d 
toward Routledge, and not wishing any unpleasantness in his 
house, he thought the only preventative was to separate the 
men at once. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


AN EXPLANATION, AND WHAT FOLLOWED. 

Alone with the man whose life she had blighted Lilian 
does not realize her position for some moments, her mind is so 
taken up with her husband^s conduct. When her attention is 
turned to Harold he is standing near the window, his face 
turned from her. His face plainly tells her what a sutterer he 
has been, and there is something in his attitude now that 
touches her heart and fills it with remorse. Her husband left 
her to talk over old times with Routledge, she thinks, bitterly. 
Well she will talk over old times. She always said to herself: 
“ I owe Harold Routledge an explanation, and if we ever meet, 
and I have an opportunity, I shall give it to him. ^ Here is 
her opportunity. But she has to press her hand over ner heart 
to still its wild beatings before she says, in a trembling voice: 

“ Mr. Routledge, won^t you be seated?’" 

Routledge can not control himself to turn at once. He takes 
his handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the cold perspira- 
tion from his brow, as he says to himself: t i ^ 

“ Weak fool that I was to come here. I can not spe^k to 
her without betraying my feelings. Oh! God, how will this 


“ Mr Routledge,” Lilian repeats, and he turns slowly to- 
ward her, “ won’t you be seated?” motioning to a chair. _ 

“ Thank you;” and like a man half fainting, he sinks into 

the chair she indicates. « , . ^ i 

Lilian seats herself some distance from him, and an aw k- 
ward pause ensues. Lilian tries to speak, but the words die 
away on her lips. She knows that Harold is suffering, and 
her heart is wrung with agony. ... 

“ This is delightful winter weather you are en3oying in 
Paris,” says Harold, in a choking voice, when he can no longer 
stand the dead silence. 

“ Yes. I believe Mr. Strebelow said that you were not to 

stav any length of time in Paris. t l i 

Lilian speaks in a fluttering voice. She does not know at 
what moment this interview may be interrupted. If she could 
only plunge at once into the subject she has at heart. 

“ I leave Paris to-morrow, Mrs. Strebelow; and he looks at 


144 


THE BAKKER'S daughter. 


Lilian for the first time since he turned from the window. 
“ 1 did not think I would see you before 1 left, but accidentally 
I met Mr. Strebelow; he asked me to call, I refused on a pre- 
tense that 1 had no time; he insisted, and — ” 

“ Mr. Strebelow insisted cries Lilian, and for a moment 
she forgets the look of suffering in Harold’s face. 

“ Yes, he insisted, and I was weak enough to yield,” says 
Harold, bitterly. 

This is Lilian’s opportunity, and she grasps at it quickly. 

“ And 1 am glad that you yielded.” 

“ You are glad!” he says, rising, and his face lights as he 
takes a step toward her. 

“ Yes, Mr. Routledge, I am glad,” and she rises and leans 
upon a table standing near for support, “ for it affords me 
an opportunity to make an explanation, the delicacy of which 
time has in some degree lessened.” 

The light fades from Harold’s face, and staggering back, he 
grasps the back of a chair with one hand; the other he waves 
at Lilian, saying: 

“ Your explanation, Mrs. Strebelow, comes too late.” 

“ I could not make it sooner. Mr. Routledge, you leave 
Paris to-morrow — we may never meet again ’’ — a moan escapes 
Harold’s lips — “ and 1 must tell you now why I married John 
Strebelow.” 

“ It is not necessary,” says Harold, bitterly. “ 1 know why 
you married John Strebelow and rejected me.” 

“ You know!” 

‘‘ Yes; John Strebelow was a rich man— 1 was poor.” 

“ Yes, it was because John Strebelow was a rich man,” she 
says, in a broken voice; “ but — ” 

“ Mrs. Strebelow, I repeat I know why; John Strebelow was 
a rich man — that is enough. There is no explanation due to 
me.” 

“ Then it is due to me!” cries Lilian. “ I must set myself 
right in your eyes. Mr. Routledge, will you listen?” she 
asks, pointing to a chair. 

“ Certainly,” he says, “ if you insist;” and he seats himself 
at the table near which she is standing. 

She seats herself opposite to him, and begins in a trembling 
voice: 

“ I must go back to the day that I received a letter from you 
saying that we had had our last quarrel, and that you were to 
leave for Europe on the following day.” 

“ 1 remember what was in that letter — if 1 only had strength 
to carry out my intention! But — 1 loved you too well.” 


THE banker's daughter. 


145 


She does not heed the bitter interruption, but continues; 

“ I was heart-broken over that letter. My aunt knew it, 
and wrote to you without delay, begging you to return to 
me — " 

“ Yes, yes," he says, clasping his hands in agony; “but 
why go over all that now?" 

Again she does not heed the interruption. 

“in answer to my aunt's letter you said you could not re- 
turn to me unless 1 sent for you. I laid aside my pride that 
day—" 

_“ And you sent me a note containing four words: ‘ Come 
to me, Harold ' — fo'ur words that have burned in my heart 
ever since. I came, only to learn from you — through your 
aunt's mouth— that you never could see me again; that you 
were engaged to John Strebelow. What is there to explain 
about this?" he cries, passionately. 

“ Will you listen?" she says, in a broken voice. 

He bows his head in token of assent, and she continues: 

“ Yes, I sent you those four words, and as I did I made a vow 
that henceforth I would be a better woman; that 1 would lay 
aside my frivolity forever; that my waywardness would never 
again cause you a pang. While I was waiting for you, my 
heart beating joyfully, as I counted the moments, everyone of 
which seemed an hour, my father sent for me." 

Lilian pauses and presses her hand over her heart, as if the 
recollection of the scene that followed were too much for her. 

Harold does not speak, and an expression of surprise and in- 
terest is creeping over his pale face. 

“ My father sent for me — sent for me to tell me that he was 
ruined — " 

Harold starts, and the look of surprise and interest deepens 
on his face. 

“ That we were on the verge of poverty, worse — shame — " 

“ Shame!" says Harold, in a suppressed voice. 

“ Yes. My father was ruined, and begged me to save him 
by accepting John Strebelow, who had that day made a pro- 
posal to him for my hand. 1 refused — refused because, 
Harold, I loved you." 

“ Lilian, Lilian!" cried Harold, in a voice laden with pity. 

She waves her hand in token of silence. 

“ I loved you, and I knew that it was not for my wealth you 
loved me. I suppose that is why I did not think poverty 
would be so hard to endure, and I told my father so. 1 tried 
to cheer him, told him that the blow did not fall so hard upon 
me as he thought it would, that I was not afraid to work for 


116 


THE banker’s daughter. 


my own living — to work for him, but he answered: ‘ Lilian, if 
it were only the poverty; but there is the shame.’ ‘What 
shame,’ 1 cried. ‘ Is poverty really a shame?’ He answered: 

‘ Ah, Lilian, 1 see you do not understand. My child, the 
world will never forgive my failure. The curses of the widows 
and orphans who intrusted their funds with me will follow me, 
will follow you.’ I crouched shivering at his feet when he said 
that, for I knew that he spoke the truth,” and Lilian wrings 
her hands and shivers, for she is living the anguish of that aw- 
ful evening over again. “ And my father continued: ‘ And 
you can, but will not save me from this disgrace, Lilian? Oh, 
thank God that your mother has not lived to see this day!’ 

‘ My mother, my mother,’ I repeated, as I knelt with my face 
hidden on the cushion of a chair. My father struck the right 
chord. Oh, what 1 suffered as my thoughts flew back to my 
sainted mother’s death-bed! Again 1 felt her arms about me 
as she breathed her last, and her dying voice seemed to echo 
through the room: ‘ Lilian, your father has promised me that 
he will live for you; darling, promise me that you will not de- 
sert him in his old age.’ I was but a little child when that 
promise was given, but oh! with what force it came back to 
me that evening. My father kept his promise to my mother, 
he lived only for me, and as 1 hoped to meet my mother in 
heaven — Harold Eoutledge, could 1 do otherwise than what 1 
have done?” and bowing her head upon the table, her over- 
taxed strength gave way and she wept aloud. 

Routledge, who seems shocked by the revelation, is awed for 
some moments by Lilian’s grief, and when he can control his 
voice, he says, rising from his chair and laying his hand on 
the bowed head of the woman he loves: 

“ Lilian, for every harsh thought I have had of you I beg 
your forgiveness. If you had only told me this before.” 

“ I dared not reveal to you why I married John Strebelow 
until my father was out of all danger. Harold, do not ask me 
to forgive you; there is nothing to forgive. You had a right 
to think harshly of me,” she says, rising and wiping her eyes. 
“ Can you — can you say that you forgive me? Oh, if you only 
knew how I long to hear those words fall from your lips,” she 
says, imploringly. 

He takes her hand in his. At the touch his bosom heaves, 
and a faint color rises to his cheek. 

“ Lilian, I forgive you.” 

Their eyes meet, and he drops her hand, and turning quick- 
ly away, walks across the room, where he stands with his face 
turned from her. 


147 


THE banker's daughter. 

“ I wish he would go now/' says Lilian to herself, as she 
draws a spasmodic breath; but in a moment Harold returns 
to her, saying, in a voice trembling with emotion: 

“ Lilian, have you been happy with the man you married?" 

“ The first year of my married life 1 was very wretched," 
answers Lilian, trying to avoid the burning eyes that are fixed 
upon her; “ but after my child was born my heart turned to 
her — and to my husband." 

“ Her pride forces her to add that. She is not happy; I 
can see it," Routledge says to himself; then, taking a step 
nearer Lilian, he says aloud: “ Then you are happy — you are 
happy now?" 

“ If you only knew how utterly wretched I am," she thinks; 
but she says, her eyes seeking the medallions on the carpet: " I 
am content with my lot; but tell me something of yourself. 
Harold, 1 feel the great wrong I have done you here," and 
Lilian lays her hand upon her bosom. “ I have never ceased 
to pray that you might be happy. It would raise such a bur- 
den from my heart to know that you had buried all memories 
of the past, that you had sought after and found happiness. 
Harold, before we part, let me hear you say that you are 
happy." 

“ Lilian," he says, with a burst of emotion that he can not 
restrain, “ I can not say what you ask. The past is ever pres- 
ent. My hopeless love for you," and he stretches out his 
hands toward her, “ lives in spite of all my efforts to bury it. 
I dream of you at night, and you are in my thoughts the live- 
long day. Oh, Lilian!" and stepping forward he passion- 
ately grasps her hands, “ you are not happy. I can see it. I 
am not hapi^y, and why should we longer live thus?" 

“ Harold — Mr. Eoutledge!" cries Lilian, in affright, trying 
to free her hands from his grasp, but in vain. 

“ Lilian, say but the word, and all this shall be changed," 
he cries, completely carried away by his feelings. 

“ My God! what have I brought upon myself?" thinks Lil- 
ian, too frightened to speak, as she struggles to free herself 
from the grasp that grows more vise-like. 

“Lilian, darling, one word of hope will make me happy. 
Oh, I have suffered so much! One word, Lilian — " 

“Mr. Eoutledge!" cries Lilian, her eyes flashing, her 
cheeks aflame with indignation, and with a sudden wrench she 
frees herself from his grasp, “you have made a mistake. I 
am John Strebelow’s wife. One word more in that strain, 
and I shall ring the bell;" and Lilian steps toward the bell, 


148 


THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER. 


but before she reaches it a voice that turns the blood in her 
veins to ice, says, in a polished French accent: 

“ It is not necessary to. ring the bell; I am here to protect 
madame’s honor. 

“ Sir, you have played the part of eavesdropper,^^ cries Lil- 
ian, turning upon the count, who stands glaring at her with a 
sardonic smile; and simultaneously, Koutiedge, who has been 
brought to his senses by Lilianas indignation, says: 

“ What do you mean, sir?^' 

Very quietly the count first answers Lilian: 

. “Who, madanie, could stop their eyes or ears to such an 
interesting soene?'^ 

“ Oh, Heaven thinks Lilian, “ I have placed myself in 
this man's power. 

Turning to Routledge, the count says, in a voice bristling 
with rage and jealousy: 

“ 1 mean that you have insulted Madame Strebelow." 

“It is false!" cries Harold; and at this moment John 
Strebelow's voice is heard without. 

“ Monsieur," hisses the count, “ at another time I shall 
teach you to contradict the Count de Carojae;" and he walks 
over to the piano, and again takes a seat there. 

Lilian seats herself at the table as her husband and Mont- 
villais enter the room. She shudders at the count's words 
and the demoniacal expression of his face. Routledge gives 
her an imploring look as he goes forward to meet her hus- 
band. 

“ 1 have been waiting to say good-bye to you, Mr. Strebe- 
low. I have already stayed too long," says Harold, in a- voice 
that he forces to be calm as he reaches his hand to John 
Strebelow. 

The count laughs sarcastically as he fingers the piano keys. 

“ You have made up j^our mind to leave Paris— when?" 
says Strebelow, taking Harold's hand. 

“ To-morrow." 

“ Oh, you should put it off until the day after, so that you 
can go to the reception at the Legation to-morrow night. To 
us Americans, you know, it will be the affair of the season." 

“ I should like to be there very much," says Harold; and 
as he speaks he thinks: “It would be an opportunity to see 
Lilian once more, beg her forgiveness for my mad conduct, 
and part friends. " 

“ Wo shall see you there, then?" says Strebelow, as Harold 
hesitates. 

“ I do not think so. " 


THE BAHKETi^S DAUaHTER. 


149 


“ That does not sound like a final answer. Monsieur Kout- 
ledge,-’^ says the count, sneeringly, without turning from the 
piano. 

Montvillais, who had crossed over to the. piano, pinched the 
count to be silent. 

“ Montvillais, we shall follow him. He has insulted me,^^ 
whispers the count. 

“ be Carojae, you are too hasty/^ 

“ I shall follow him alone if you will not go with me,^^ says 
the count, rising as Harold departs. 

“ Wait a moment; do not leave so hastily, or you will at- 
tract attention,^^ says Montvillais, wishing to give Routledge 
time to get away. “ One moment, and I will go with you. 

“ Are you going so soon, gentlemen?'^ asks Strebelow. 

“ Yes; I have urgent business on hand,^^ says the count, 
with a meaning glance at Lilian that chills the blood. 

When the count leaves the salon he hurries into the street, 
followed by Montvillais; but Eoutledge is nowhere to be seen. 

‘‘ He has escaped me this time; but he shall not leave Paris 
until he answers to me for what he has done,^^ says the count, 
in a rage. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

GROWING COLDNESS. 

When the count and his friend have taken leave John 
Strebelow^s face clouds. There is something between these 
men — something which, perhaps, has taken place beneath his 
roof to-day for aught he knows. Has his wife any part in it? 
Does she understand the meaning of the count's bitterness 
toward Routledge, and will she explain it to him? 

Lilian is sitting at the table, her elbow resting upon it, her 
hand supporting her chin. Her husband watches her for some 
moments, the cloud on his face growing darker. She does not 
move. She knows he is watching her, but she does not care. 
He comes over to the table, and seats himself not a yard away 
from her. He picks up a book that lays upon the table, turns 
over the pages, and throws it down again; but Lilian neither 
speaks nor moves— 'indeed, if she were cut from a piece of 
marble she could not be more motionless. Strebelow rises and 
walks the floor, his head bowed, his hands clasped behind him. 
Once, twice, three times, he raises his head as if he is about to 
address his wife, but each time thinks better of it. The silence 
at length becomes so oppressive that John Strebelow swallows 


150 THE banker's daughter. 

the great lump that seems to have risen in his throat, and says, 
abruptly: 

“ Lilian, the count was very disagreeable to-day, particu- 
larly to Eoutledge; what was the matter with him?" 

Lilian’s hand drops from her chin, and she turns and faces 
her husband. 

“ Why do you ask me? 

Her voice rings through the room, and for a moment startles 
her husband. 

“ Well," he says, coldly, “ I asked you simply because I 
thought you might know. Lilian, you act very strangely." 

“ Do 1?" says Lilian, sarcastically. 

“ Indeed you do," says the husband, in the same cold, even 
tone that he had spoken in before. “ I noticed that you were 
as cold to your guests, particularly , Eoutledge, as the count 
was disagreeable." 

“ And you persuaded Harold Eoutledge to come here, 
thinking that 1 would give him a warm reception, that 1 
would be delighted to see him?" she says, rising from her 
chair, and standing haughtily erect. 

“ Certainly," says Strebelow, coldly; but there is a look of 
surprise in his eyes as he regards his wife. “ I thought you 
would be delighted to see one who had been so much to you in 
days gone by. " 

The crimson mounts to Lilian's fair temples, her eyes flash, 
her lips curl, and her voice rings with scorn as she says: 

“ Truly, Mr. Strebelow, you are a husband in ten thousand! 
Believe me, I shall never forget the kindness, the thoughtful- 
ness, that you have displayed to-day." 

She sweeps from the room as these scornful words fall from 
her lips. The husband's eyes follow her, but he says no word 
to detain her. 

“ What does she mean? The words imply that I did wrong 
in bringing Eoutledge here. Has she heard something against 
his character that makes him unfit to be received into a fam- 
ily? Yes, that must be it; and De Oarojae must be aware of 
it also; and this is why he sneered at Eoutledge and treated 
him with such disdain. But Lilian should know me better. 
She knows that I would never invite Eoutledge under my 
roof if I believed there was a blot upon his character. Ho, 
no; I am wrong; I have not guessed the cause of Lilian's con- 
duct. I do not believe a word can be said against the fair 
fame of Harold— Harold, Harold — " 

A thought strikes him, and if it had been a thunderbolt it 
could not have stunned him more for a few moments. He 


THE banker's daughter. 151 

presses his hands to his temples, and once more thought flies 
on rapid wing. 

^It is the name Lilian called in her dream the other night. 
Was she calling on Routledge? No; he was not in Paris 
then, and Lilian had not seen him for years. But how did he 
know how long he might have been in Paris? For all he 
knows, Lilian may have seen him everyday since she came 
here. And the picture on exhibition that she went to see! 
Why did she not mention that to him? Why — 

Here his thoughts stop, for his breath seems to have left 
him. The blood rises in a wave to his head, the veins in his 
neck swell, he thinks he will suffocate, and he wrenches open 
his collar and cravat. 

“ I will not believe it," he gasps, when his breath returns.- 
“ Yesterday it was the oount, to-day it is Routledge. My 
God! what has come over me? I think I shall go mad — 
mad;" and flinging himself into a chair he bows his head 
upon the table where his wife's tears flowed but a short time 
before. 

But a few moments pass when a heavy footfall, unheard by 
John Strebelow, enters the room. 

“John, John!" 

At the touch of a hand upon his shoulder, more than the 
sound of the voice, Strebelow starts up and meets the sur- 
prised and admiring gaze of his father-in-law. 

“ What is the matter, John?" 

“ Oh — nothing, nothing — will you excuse me?" says Strebe- 
low, with a bewildered air. 

“ Certainly," says the banker; and without another word 
Strebelow hurries from the room. 

The banker looks troubled as he thinks how strange Strebe- 
low looked. 

“ I hope there has been no trouble between him and Lili- 
an," says the banker to himself. “ I must find out," and he 
touches the bell. 

“Say to Mrs. Strebelow that I wish to see her here," he 
says to the servant that appears in answer to his ring. 

The girl shortly returns with the answer that madame is 
suffering so much from a headache that she can not leave her 
room for the present. 

“ Umph! that is a bad omen," mutters the banker, with a 
thoughtful look. 

Lilian has not the headache. She said her head, but she 
meant her heart. Harold Routledge's suffering haunts her. 
She has been the bane of his life, and her heart, that has long 


lo2 


THE EANKElt’s DAU^iHTER. 


since turned from him, is wrung with pity for him now. Why 
did her husband bring him here to-day? Was it to punish 
her for loving Routledge while she married himself? . It must 
be so. Lilianas judgment rebelled against this thought, but 
reason has no sway to-day. She wants to think il] of her hus- 
band as she sheds tears over Harold^s suffering, over her own. 
Oh! how much less she would suffer to-day if she had never 
learned to love her husband. 

“Foolish thought!’^ she says, aloud, “perhaps this very 
love that causes me so much misery was my salvation to-day, 
or would I be any happier, knowing that Routledge loved me, 
if I loved him still? No, no; it is better as it is.-’^ 

There is a cold, defiant look on Lilianas face when she ap- 
pears before her husband and father at the dinner-table. It 
does not take the banker many moments to see that it is as he 
feared. Something has gone wrong between the husband and 
wife. Lilian speaks only when her father addresses her. 
John Strebelow^s face is pale, but he converses pleasantly 
with the banker, directing no part of the conversation to his 
wife. Lilian leaves the gentlemen at the table and retires to 
her boudoir. 

“ What is the matter with Lilian?’' asks the banker. 

“ Heaven only knov^s. Harold Routledge called here to- 
day, and she has not been herself since.” 

It is well J ohn Strebelow has not his eyes fixed on the banker 
as he speaks to him. That gentleman starts perceptibly at 
the mention of the artist’s name, and there is a pause of a few 
moments before he trusts himself to say, as he assumes a care- 
less air: 

“Routledge — Harold Routledge? Is it the American 
artist?” 

“ The same. I happened to meet him this morning, and 
asked him to call, thinking that Lilian would be glad to see 
him.” 

“ And I’ll warrant she was delighted to see him,” says the 
banker, with pretended enthusiasm, as he scrutinizes his son- 
in-law’s face. “ You know Lilian and Routledge were chil- 
dren together.” 

“ Yes, I know,” says Strebelow, rising; “ but I don’t un- 
derstand Lilian’s conduct.” 

Strebelow invites the banker to go out with him, but on a 
pretense Ihat he is too tired, Lawrence Westbrook refuses, as 
he wishes to remain at home to talk to his daughter; and for 
the first time during their married life, John Strebelow leaves 
his home without speaking to his wife. 


THE BAHKER^S DAUGHTER. 

The banker meets Lisette in the hall, and learning that 
Lilian is in her boudoir, seeks her there without delay. 

“ Harold Eoutledge was here to-day?’^ he says, in an inter* 
rogative voice, broaching the subject at once. 

“ Yes,’^ answers Lilian. 

“ Lilian, am I to understand that, after five years, the sight 
of this man is enough to make you act coldly toward your 
husband?’^ 

“ No,^Ms all Lilian says. 

“ Then, Lilian, what makes you act so strangely 

“ Father, what right had John Strebelow to persuade Har- 
old Eoutledge to call upon me? Do you think that in doing 
so he showed any respect for my feelings?^^ says Lilian, indig- 
nantly. 

Like a flash the banker understands what is the matter. He 
turns deathly pale as he says, in a confused voice: 

“.Lilian, your husband did it for the best.’^ 

“ Father, what do you mean?^^ 

“ I mean that your husband asked Harold Eoutledge here 
to show you that he had forgotten the past — to show you what 
faith he had in you. 

“ I do not believe it, says Lilian, with compressed lips. 

The banker, in great distress, tries to convince Lilian that 
she is wrong; but she is not open to conviction. Her father 
is in despair. He watches husband and wife closely that night 
and next day, and sees that neither takes a step toward a 
reconciliation; instead, tlieir coldness toward each other in- 
creases. 


CHAPTEE XXIX. 

WHAT HAPPENED IN THE VESTIBULE OF THE HOUSE OF 
THE AMERICAN MINISTER. 

“ Let us linger here in the vestibule. It is early, and he 
may not have come yet; and if he is upstairs, he can not leave 
without our seeing him,’^ says Count de Carojae, with a look 
of fiendish determination in his eyes. 

“I do not think Eoutledge is coming. I believe he has 
left Paris by this time,^^ says Montvillais, as if trying to con- 
vince his friend. 

“I donT,’’ answers the count, vindictively. “I inter- 
rupted an interview of theirs yesterday, and I believe he will 
risk anything to see madam© again.’’ 

“ De Carojae, why will you persist in seeking a quarrel with 
this man?” says Montvillais. 


154 


THE banker’s daughter. 


“ Montvillais, how many times must I tell you why? He 
has insulted me; he thinks he has triumphed over me; but I 
shall let him see who will be victor.” 

“ I don’t believe Eoutledge thinks anything o£ the sort. 
You imagine it all, De Oarojae.” 

The count shrugs his shoulders, and walks up and down 
the marble floor. 

It is a brilliantly lighted scene, the vestibule and stair- ways 
of the house of the American minister. A stream of people,, 
dressed in elegant evening costume, is flowing in, and De 
Oarojae keeps a sharp lookout for Eoutledge. The stream 
gradually dwindles away, and Montvillais says: 

“ I told you he would not come.” 

“ We shall go upstairs; he must be there,” says the count, 
his face growing dark at the thought of being cheated out of 
the terrible revenge he has planned. 

“ Good-evening, gentlemen.” 

The count turns from the staircase. 

“Ah! good-evening. Monsieur Strebelow,” says the count 
and Montvillais in a breath. 

“ You are late,” says the count, wishing to ascertain 
whether Lilian is coming. 

“ Bather; but we are not going to remain long. In fact, 
we would not have come to-night only Mr. Westbrook wished 
to get a glimpse of the affair — ” 

“ How do you do, Strebelow? glad to see you,” shouts a 
loud voice, a voice that is familiar,, yet John Strebelow is puz- 
zled until he turns and encounters the handsome, rosy face 
and outstretched hand of George Washington Phipps. 

“ Why, Phipps! how do you do?” says Strebelow, heartily, 
as he receives Phipps’s warm grasp. 

“ Grand place this; wouldn’t mind being the American 
minister myself.” And Phipps’s eyes roll from floor to ceil- 
ing and take in everything between. 

Strebelow knows Phipps of old, and he tries to keep a 
straight face as he sees the look of curiosity with which the 
count and his friend jegard his countryman. 

“ Is this a pleasure trip, Phipps?” 

“ Well, yes; that is, pleasure and business combined,” says 
Phipps, in a loud voice. “ I have how to make the most of 
one’s time down so flne that I see all the sights, nothing 
escapes me, and I attend to my business besides.” 

“Indeed,” says Strebelow, who longs to step on Phipps’s 
toe to make him speak in a lower key; but it is well he does 
not attempt it, for no such hint will have eftect on Phipps. 


THE BAHKER^S DAUGHTER. 155 

He will talk loud if he chooses; there is nothing in his affairs 
that he is ashamed of or wishes to cover up. 

The count and Montvillais are attentive listeners. The 
count looks highly amused; not so Montvillais; he raises his 
eyeglasses to his blue eyes that are filled with Wonder, and 
gazes at Phipps. Evidently he regards that gentleman as a 
subject worthy of criticism. 

“ Yes,^’ continues Phipps, even louder than before, “I 
arrived in Paris just two hours and a half ago. Changed my 
dress, started for here, and on my way visited Notre Dame, 
the Tuileries, and half dozen other places of less account. 
Who are these says Phipps, nodding his head at Mont- 
villais, who stands like a statue, and at the count, who is look- 
ing on all smiles. 

“ Oh, excuse me!’^ says Strebelow, laughing in spite of 
himself-, “ Count de Carojae, allow me to introduce my friend 
and countryman, Mr. Phipps^ — 

The count makes his lowest bow, which highly amuses mat- 
ter-of-fact Phipps. He looks at the nobleman with a comical 
expression of countenance, as if studying his movements, then 
bows equally as low. 

“ Monsieur Montvillais,^^ says Strebelow, shaking with sup- 
pressed merriment, “ my friend Mr. Phipps.’^ 

“George Washington Phipps,’^ interrupts Phipps: “Dry 
Goods, Church Street, New York. WhaPs his business?"" 
turning to Strebelow, in an under-tone, as he indicates Mont- 
villais, with a nod of his head. 

Strebelow, with a painful effort to suppress his laughter, 
which is excited more by the effect of Phipps upon his friends 
than upon himself, says, after regarding for a moment the 
critic, who is struck dumb with amazement: 

“ His business? Well, stationery."" 

“And the other fellow’s?"" whispers Phipps, but loud 
enough to be heard, as he nods his head in the count’s direc- 
tion. 

Strebelow looks at Europe’s celebrated duelist, and an- 
swers: 

“ Fire-arms and cutlery." 

The count laughs; and Phipps, who sees nothing irregular 
in the proceeding, says, with the earnest curiosity of a live 
Yankee: 

“ Fire-arms and cutlery I Urnph! Good business here?” 

“ Well, no,” says Strebelow, laughing. “ I think it is a 
very bad business.” 

“ My friend,” says the critic, who seems to have just re- 


THE BANKEP/S DAUGHTER. 


156 

covered his breath, “ did I understand you to say that only 
two hours and a half ago you arrived in Paris, and that you 
have already seen the Tuiieries, Notre Dame, and — 

“ You are right; that^s just what I said — saw every inch of 
them,'' interrupts Phipps. 

Strebelow and the count can hardly contain themselves as 
they watch the expression of Montvillais's face. 

“ Mr. Phipps, I should not be surprised if you saw the 
whole of Paris in less than two weeks," says Montvillais, with 
genuine amazement. 

“ Well, I should be surprised if I didn't see it in less than 
two weeks. This is Wednesday night, and I shall leave Paris 
on Saturday next — " 

“ And you think you will see it all in that time?" cries the 
critic. 

“All!— I'm sure of it — and reserve Friday for business — 
silks," says Mr. Phipps, with a self-satisfied air that fairly 
horrifies the critic. 

“ According to that, you will have seen all the sights of 
Europe in a very short time," says the count, trying to look 
serious. 

“ Have seen everything — except what there is to be seen in 
Paris. " 

“ Then you have been in Europe some time?" says Strebe- 
low. 

Phipps instantly pulls out his note-book, looks over it, and 
answers: 

“Arrived in Liverpool two p. m., November 30th — just 
two weeks ago last Saturday — " 

“ And you have — " 

“ Done Europe thoroughly — yes, sir," says Phipps, cutting 
Montvillais short. “ Spent three whole days in London — " 

“ And you were in Germany?" says the count, drawing 
Phipps out. 

“ Oh, yes — was in Berlin — don't think much of the city — " 

“ And Dresden?” asks the count. 

“ Yes—" begins Phipps, but Montvillais interrupts him 
with: 

“ 1 suppose you visited the art-gallery?" 

“ Oh, I have that down fine— spent twenty minutes there," 
says Phipps, earnestly. 

The critic walks away in disgust, and Phipps continues: 

“ The first thing to-morrow morning I shall visit the Camp 
Eliza-" ^ 


THE EAHKEIi^S DAUGHTER. 


157 


A groan escapes the critic, and Strebelow gives Phipps a 
pinch, and whispers: 

“ Champs Elysees.’^ 

“ Oh!"' and at last Phipps thinks he has made a slight mis- 
take, but, nothing daunted, he dives into his pocket for his 
pronouncing dictionary. “ Where is that jaw-breaker?’^ he 
says to himself, as he turns over the leaves. “Ah! now 1 
have it,” is his mental comment, and he begins again, as if 
nothing had happened: 

“ The first thing to-morrow morning I shall visit the Cha 
— Champs Elezy. ITl go and have a peep upstairs now. 
Here is my card” — to a lackey: “George Washington 
Phipps, N. Y., U. S. A. Strebelow, I’ll see you later;” and 
with a bound Phipps is up the grand stair-way, leaving the 
gentlemen to enjoy a good laugh. 

“ Gentlemen,” says Strebelow, when he recovers his com- 
posure, “ my countryman is rather eccentric, but a better- 
hearted fellow does not live. ” 

“ Here is a country wopfian of yours who is also rather 
eccentric,” says the count. 

“Ah, Madame Brown!” says !Montvillais, as Florence ap- 
pears at the head of the staircase. 

“ Good-evening, gentlemen. Duke de 'Strebelow, I am in 
search of you, or rather the duchess. Where is she?” says 
Florence, as she comes down the stairs, resplendent in rich 
silk, pansies, and diamonds. 

“ Lilian is coming with her father. Is the Prince de Brown 
here?” says Strebelow, smiling. 

“ Certainly. Hark, here he comes! Oh, dear! and I 
thought I had so nicely got rid of him,” says Florence, petu- 
lantly. 

The thud of a cane is distinctly heard, and the gentlemen 
seem highly amused. Evidently the vestibule to-night is to 
be a scene of comedy — may it not end in tragedy. 

“ Florence, Florence, dear, are you there?” says the squeak- 
ing vDice of the millionaire from the top of the stair-way. 

“Yes, dear; shall 1 come and help you?” says Florence, in 
a voice of concern, while her face is all smiles. 

“ Well— yes— if you will just give me your hand.” 

“ Allow me,” and Strebelow assists Mr. Brown to the vesti- 
bule. “ Are you better to-night, Mr. Brown?” says Strebe- 
low. 

“Oh, much better! I shall be well to-morrow. You see, 
it is nothing but a slight attack of the gout, and the doctor 
says 1 may go on having them for the next twenty years.” 


158 


THE banker's daughter. 


Florence raises her hands in horror behind her husband, and 
it costs the gentlemen an effort to keep back a smile. 

“With an old man/' continues Brown, “these attacks 
would linger for a long time; but with a man of your age, 
Strebelow, or mine, it is different. The energy and elasticity 
of our nature soon serves to overcome the disease." 

“ Certainly, certainly," says Strebelow. 

“ Florence, dear, were you jealous because 1 flirted with 
Mrs. Core? Is that the reason you ran away?" and he pats 
his wife coaxingly under the chin. 

This is too much for the gentlemen, and they have to turn 
away to hide their faces. 

“ Well, I was just a little jealous," says Florence, pettishly; 
but she also must turn away to hide her face. 

“ Strebelow, that's the way to make them think something 
of you. Make them jealous. A woman cares nothing for a 
man unless he has a spice of deviltry in him." And the gay 
young fellow of three quarters of a century gives Strebelow a 
poke in the ribs. “ Try it with yopr wife, Strebelow." And 
the millionaire laughs gayly. “ There is nothing like a spice 
of deviltry," and he attempts to give his leg a shake, but he 
touches his gouty foot in a tender spot, and he fairly yells 
with pain. 

“ Oh, Mr. Strebelow, will you assist him to the room at the 
end of the vestibule here? He must lie down and rest his 
poor leg," says Florence. 

Choking with laughter, Strebelow and the count help the 
ridiculous old man, from whom all spice of deviltry sped in- 
stanter, to a little reception-room at tne end of the corridor, 
where they leave him alone with his wife. 

“Gentlemen, will you excuse me?" says Strebelow; “my 
wife may have come. " 

He leaves the vestibule, and is gone but a few minutes, 
when he returns with Lilian on his arm, having left her fa- 
ther with some friends. Montvillais is standing aside, reading 
a slip of paper, but the count is at the foot of the staircase, 
directly in Lilian's path; but Lilian is determined not to notice 
him. Her foot is on the lowest stair, when her husband 
pauses, and with a scrutinizing glance from the count to his 
wife, says: 

“ Lilian, do you not see the count?" 

“Yes,! see Count de Carojae," says Lilian, haughtily; 
and the only recognition she gives him is a haughty stare. 

They ascend a few more steps, when John Strebelow says to 
a gentleman coming down: 


THE BAHKER^S DAUGHTER. 


159 


“ Good-evening, Mr. Rootled ge; so you did come?^’ 

“ Yes; but I am going now. Good-bye, Mr. Strebelow— 
Mrs. Strebelow — farewell. 

There is a sadness in that last word that goes to John 
Strebelow's heart, and he can feel his wife’s arm tremble 
within his. He says no word to detain Routledge, but turn- 
ing, as the young man reaches the vestibule, he says: 

“ Routledge, that picture you have on exhibition; 1 would 
like to purchase it.” 

“ 1 do not wish to part with it at present,” answers Rout- 
ledge. 

“ Oh, very well; another time, perhaps;” and Strebelow 
leads his wife upstairs,, ^nd they are soon out of sight and 
hearing of those below. 

When Routledge appeared upon the stairs, the count crossed 
over to Montvillais, saying: 

“ He was upstairs while we were waiting for him to come.” 

“ De Carojae, come; let him go his way,” says Montvillais, 
entreatingly. 

“ Montvillais, you don’t know me yet;” and when Strebe- 
low and his wife disappear, the count plants himself in Rout- 
ledge’s path, and as he does the door of the reception-room at 
the end of the corridor opens, and Florence, all smiles, ap- 
pears. 

She is thinking how nice it is that she has got old Brown 
asleep, but the instant she sees the count’s threatening atti- 
tude before Routledge the smiles disappear, and stepping 
softly back into the room again, she holds the door ajar and 
listens, unperceived by any of the men. 

“ How dare you place that picture on exhibition?” demands 
the count. 

“ Sir, I decline to answer a question that you have no right 
to ask,” says Routledge, in a calm, cold voice; and he at- 
tempts to pass the count. 

“ But you shall not leave here until you answer me,” says 
the count, his face purple with rage. 

“ Count de Carojae, you have dogged my footsteps all day. 
You have determined to quarrel with me, but I am deter- 
mined not to have a quarrel with you that involves the name 
of an American lady whom 1 honor.” 

“ Come away, Ue Carojae,” says Montvillais, in alarm; 
‘\you will attract attention;” and he pulls the count away. 

The count out of his path, Harold Routledge passes out of 
the vestibule, and Montvillais has to hold the count back. 

“ De Carojae, you must not quarrel here in the Legation.” 


160 


THK banker’s daughter. 


He wrenches himself from Montvillais’s grasp, saying: 

“ ni teach him to laugh at Alfonse de Carojae;” and he 
dashes after Routledge, Montvillais following him. 

“ A sensation at last!” cries Florence, rushing out into the 
vestibule when the men have disappeared. 

At this moment Lisette, who has accompanied her mistress 
here, appears in the vestibule. 

“ Oh, Lisette, is your mistress here?” cries Florence. 

“ Yes, madame; but she is not going to stay long. I am 
to wait for her.” 

“ Lisette, will you do me a favor?” 

“ Yes, madame.” 

“ Then go into the room yonder and sit with Mr. Brown. 
He is asleep, and when he awakes, tell him that I had to go 
home with Mrs. Strebelow, and that he must .go home at 
once.” 

“ Yes, madame;” and Lisette starts for the little recep- 
tion-room. 

“ And, Lisette, if his foot should slip from the bench, raise 
it up gently and place it back again, and see that the hand- 
kerchief does not slip from his dear bald head.” 

“ Yes, madame.” 

“ Oh, dear, I’ve been a mother to Brown,” says Florence, 
earnestly, as she heaves a long-drawn sigh. 

“ How what shall I do next?” she says, as she stands un- 
decided. ” Find Lilian, and inform her what is taking place. 
There will be a duel, that is certain, and Lilian’s name will 
be the talk of Paris. If it were only mine I But then I shall 
come in for a share of the honor. As the friend of the lady 
whose name is in question, I shall be interviewed. What Mrs. 
Brown knows, what Mrs. Brown says, what Mrs. Brown 
thinks. Mrs. Brown, wife of the millionaire now residing in 
Paris, will be in the paper, all in big type;” and Florence 
clasps her hands in delight. “ The New York ‘ Herald ’ will 
have it, and every one on the avenue will be talking of Mrs. 
Brown — Mrs. BroWn! How- 1 hate that name. B-r-o-w-n-e 
— I’ve added the E myself. Now, if it were only Livingston 
— but there; I can not lose any more time talking, I must go 
search for Lilian;” and the reckless little brunette flies up the 
stairs, and as she does Mr. Phipps comes flying down. 

It is only Mr. Phipps’s splendid control over his rapid loco> 
motion that prevents a collision. 

“ Mr. Phipps!” 

“ Mrs. Brown!” 

And they both stand and stare in each other’s faces a mo- 


THE banker’s daughtI:r. 


161 


menfc, then Mr. Phipps allows Florence to pass; but the lady 
can scarce recover her senses or believe her own eyes, and 
mountin;^^ to the head of the stairs she stands and looks down 
at Phipps. Mr. Phipps is standing at the foot of the stairs, 
looking up at Mrs. Brown. They stare at each other fully a 
minute, when Phipps abruptly says: 

“ Florence, is old Brown dead yet?^’ 

“No, sir,"’ says Florence, with an indignant toss of her 
head. 

“ Then I have no more to say to you. Good-evening, Mrs. 
Brown. ” 

Florence bites her lips and continues her way up the next 
flight of stairs. 

“ How often I have thought of him!” and tears start in 
her black eyes; “ and after so many years to meet me like 
this. I declare George Washington Phipps has no more senti- 
ment than a stick.” 

While Florence is relieving herself with this outburst, 
Phipps stands in the center of the vestibule, his hands under 
his coat-tails, taking stock of all around him. 

“ All very fine — very fine— for our representative. Well, 
1 must be about my .notes;” and Phipps takes out his note- 
book and makes a memorandum of the chandeliers, statuary, 
etcetera, of the American Legation. 

As he is putting his book back in his pocket he sees a gen- 
tleman coming hastily along the corridor. 

“ I think 1 know that face,” says Phipps to himself, and as 
the gentleman draws near he rushes forward with extended 
hand. 

“ Routledge, as I live!” 

“ Phipps!” is all Routledge says, as he grasps the extended 
hand. 

“ Routledge, what ails you? You are as white as a ghost, 
and you are trembling like a leaf,” says Phipps, in his blunt 
way, as he wheels Routledge around so that he gets the full 
benefit of the gas-light. 

“ Phipps, I am in need of a friend to-night.” 

“ I’m your man,” says Phipps. 

“ It is a delicate matter, Phipps; can I rely upon you?” 

“• Certainly you can. What is it?” 

“ I have been insulted here to-night, grossly insulted by a 
man, the Count de Carojae. You must have met him.” 

“I know him — fire-arms and cutlery. When he insulted 
you, why didn’t you knock him dowrf?” 

0 


m 


TH*E BANKER'S DAUGHTER. 


“My resenting his insult would place a lady whom I re- 
spect in a painful position. 

“ Ha! ha! there’s a woman at the bottom of it. Well, 1 
might have known it. So you and the fierce-looking gentle- 
man are rivals?” 

“ Far from it; the lady in question is married, a friend of 
mine— and of yours.” 

“ A friend of mine? Then Mr. Count de Carojae had bet- 
ter look out for himself.” 

“ Years ago 1 had the misfortune to wound the count's 
vanity. He thought that, but for me, he would be sqccess- 
f ul in winning the hand of Mrs. Strebelow, who was. then Miss 
Westbrook.” 

“Ah! this is the delicate part of the business.” 

“ Yes; and what 1 have told you must never pass 5 mur 
lips.” 

“ I understand.” 

“ With respect for myself, I can not now avoid the quarrel 
he is forcing upon me. See yonder,” says Harold, pointing 
down the corridor; “ he wants to follow me, but his friend is 
trying to keep him back. He insulted me here in this vesti- 
bule, and again down-stairs.” 

“Ah! they are, coming. Don’t let him see that you are 
afraid,” says Phipps. “ J’ll stand by you.” 

“ To the end, Phipps? Soniething tells me that 1 will 
never come out from an encounter with that man alive. ” 

“ Cheer up, man; you are blue,” says Phipps, pressing 
Routledge’s cold hand. 

“ No; 1 feel that I have come to Paris to meet my doom. 
You'll never breathe the cause of this quarrel, Phipps?” 
falters Harold. 

“ Never,” whispers Phipps, as the count— his cheek flushed 
with wine, his eyes shining with a baleful light — comes up, 
followed by his friend. 

“You would sneak out of this on the pretense that you are 
too honorable to quarrel over the name of an American lady,” 
says the count, tauntingly, as he approaches Routledge. 

“Count de Carojae, if you will force me to quarrel with 
you, find a cause that will not involve the name of any lady, 
American or French, and a place where the flag of my coun- 
try does not protect you,” says Routledge, who can no longer 
keep his temper within bounds. 

“ That flag,” says the count, taking pew grounds for the 
quarrel he is determined to force Routledge into — “ that flag 
protect me!’' pointing sfleeringly at the American colors. 


TUB banker's DAUOHTEE. 


163 


.The insulfc to his country's flag makes Phipps's blood boil, 
and he cries to Routledge: 

“ If you don't punch his head, 1 will!" and Routledge has 
to step between him and the count. 

“ The American flag is but a rag," says the count, through 
his clinched teeth, as he shakes his finger in Harold's face. 

“He Carojae, for God's sake, come away!" cries Mont- 
villais; but he may as well speak to the wind, for the count 
continues: 

“ It was never knowm to protect any one or anything." 

“ You are either drunk or a blackugard," cries Routledge; 
and he gives the count a blow that staggers him. 

“ Good!" cries Phipps, clapping his hands. “ Send home 
another one like that, Routledge, and you'll finish the scoun- 
drel." 

The count recovers himself, and taking his glove from his 
pocket, slaps Routledge across the face. 

“ Count de Carojae, I accept your challenge," says Rout- 
ledge, in a calm, firm voice, having recovered his composure. 

IJntil this moment the vestibule and stair-ways are deserted, 
save by those performing the opening act of the tragedy. 
Now two women appear upon the stair-way; one, her face 
^low with excitement, the other, her face deathly white. 
Ilorehce found Lilian, and told her what she had overheard, 
and they are coming down-stairs now in the hope of learning 
something further of the count and Routledge's movements, 
when on their ears fall the ominous words: 

“ Count de Carojae, I accept yoiir challenge." 

Lilian throws up her arms in despair, and Florence, think- 
ing she is going to cry out, says: 

“ Don't speak, and we will hear it all." 

Lilian leans heavily against the balustrade. 

There is no need for Florence to warn her not to speak. 
She thinks it is her last breath she is trying to gasp as she 
stands there, and her whole life, and the awful sin she com- 
mitted against the man standing there below, is crowded into 
this dreadful moment. 

“ And the duel must be fought at once," Routledge con- 
tinues. 

“ That suits me," answ^ers the count. 

“I will meet you in fifteen minutes at any place you may 
choose to name. Is the time too short?" says Routledge, 
haughtily. 

“ Too short," says the count, after a moment's thought, 
“to veach the spot where we shall be safe from detection. 


164 THE banker's daughter. 

Say an hour from now, in the old chdteau ruins on the left of 
the Seine, above the city." 

Routledge bows his head, and the count continues: 

“ Our seconds will attend to the rest." 

Again Routledge bows his head in token of assent, and the 
" whole party hurriedly leave the vestibule. 

Lilian makes one desperate effort to call Routledge, but a 
gasp is the only sound she utters as she sinks half fainting in 
t'lorence's arms. 

“ Courage, Lilian; don't faint now. AVe know where they 
are going, and we must follow them without delay. Won't it 
create a sensation! Just as they stand in position to fight, we 
will appear and prevent the duel." 

“ Oh, Florence, we can not do that! The proper authorities 
must be notified at once; but it will be too late. I dreamed 
all this the other night. The count will kill Harold. Flor- 
ence, Florence, help me — 1 have not strength to move " 

“ We'll send for a carriage and follow them — " 

“Florence, call John," gasps Lilian. “Quick; I must 
tell him— he will know what to do." 

“ And you won’t faint before 1 come back?" says Florence, 
earnestly. 

“ No, no — go, quick!" 

Florence hastens away, and as she does, a lady and gentle- 
man, coming down-stairs, sees Lilian clinging to the balus- 
trade. The lady hurries to Lilian, and says, in a voice of 
concern: 

“ Madame, you are not well. Can 1 assist you?" 

“ Thanks," says Lilian; “it is only the heat. I shall be 
better in a few minutes." 

The lady and gentleman pass on, and in another minute 
John Strebelow, with a pale, frightened face, appears, followed 
by Florence. 

“ Lilian," and instantly her husband’s arm supports her, 
“ what has happened? What is the matter?’' 

“ Oh, John — John, you miist — " 

“ Speak, Lilian. What must 1 do?" 

“ The Count de Carojae and Harold Routledge will fight a 
duel in an hour, and you must prevent it!" cries Florence. 

“ A duel! The count and Harold Routledge?" and John 
Strebelow looks at his wife in dismay; then his face grows 
white as he thinks: “ My God! Routledge is doomed; he will 
not come out alive from an encounter with the count." 

“John," and supplicatihgly she reaches her clasped hands 
to him — “ John, for my sake, will you stop this duel?" 


THE banker’s daughter. 165 

He will never forget her as she looks at this moment. He 
clasps her in his arms as he says: 

“ Lilian, it is my duty to stop this duel. Have you any 
idea where it is to be fought.^” 

“ Florence, tell him, quick.” 

“ I shall find the ruins without any trouble,” he says when 
Florence has explained in a few words; “ but there is no time 
to be lost. Florence, take care of her;” and pressing a kiss 
on his wife’s brow, he is starting away, but Lilian grasps his 
arm. 

“John, take me with you; I will die of suspense if you 
leave me here. ” 

“ Lilian, there is not a moment to lose, and your being with 
me might cause delay; besides, the scene will not be one for 
you to witness. Darling, keep up your courage; all will be 
well;” and Strebelow hurries away with a terrible presenti- 
ment that all will not be so well as he has tried to make his 
wife believe. 

“ Florence, what shall we do?” 

“Follow him,” says Florence. “Come, quick; we have 
our wraps; there is nothing to delay us.” 

“ But how can we follow him?” says Lilian, in despair. 

“ By taking my carriage. If we go at once, my coachman 
may be able to keep your husband’s carriage in sight. If 
Brown awakes b^ore I return, and wants to go home, there 
are plenty other carriages to be had. AVill you come?” 

“ Yes, for I shall die if 1. remain here.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE DUEL. 

The weather can no longer be called delightful. A slight 
snow-storm of the early part of the evening is followed by a 
clear, bitter cold. The dark sky is star-set, and a full moon 
has risen and is bathing the lightly snow-covered ground and 
ruins with a silvery radiance, giving the picturesque spot upon 
which an awful tragedy is so soon to be enacted a quiet, peace- 
ful look, despite the cold, cheerless weather. 

A lonely, romantic spot. Not a sound to be heard, save 
the whistling of the wintery wind through the leafless branches 
of the trees, through the crumbling, ivy-grown walls and de- 
serted halls of the once grand old chateau that has fallen to 
ruins. Not a sound, yet the brilliantly, lighted capital is so 
plainly in view that one can easily imagine that he can hear 
the noise of thq mad revel, the yells of delight from the 


166 


THE banker’s daughter. 


throats of the gay, volatile race, whose night’s pleasure has 
scarce begun, though the hour of twelve is at hand. This 
spot, clxosen far 'the duel, is a clearing in the midst of the 
ruins. It is approachedr by several entrances, and its only 
canopy is the starry heavens and the meeting branches of the 
trees. 

Suddenly footsteps re-echo through a stone portico, and 
the scene is no longer deserted. Two men appear upon the 
porch, buttoned to the chin in heavy overcoats. The fore- 
most one glances quickly about him, then says to his compan- 
ion. in a hollow voice: 

“ There is no one here, yet this must be the place.” And 
stepping down from the porch, he walks across the clearing, 
and looks about him once more. 

His companion makes no reply. He is too busy. The mo- 
ment he stood upon the porch he gave an exclamation of sur- 
prise, and looked around him in wonder; and now he is bend- 
ing low, examkiing the carving of the stone balustrade, rub- 
bing his hand over it to make sure that it is stone. Appar- 
ently, the awful business that brought him here is not enough 
to subdue the innate curiosity of George AVashington Phipps. 
He pulls out his note-book, and says aloud as he makes his 
memorandum: 

“ Euins near Paris — by moonlight — city finely lighted in 
the distance ” — putting away his book — “will make notes of 
it when I have more time. Did you speak to me, Eout- 
ledge?” 

Harold starts as if from a dream when addressed by Phipps. 

“ Yes. Do you think we are in the right place? They 
ought to be here. ” 

“ Oh, we are in the right place, sure enough. The direc- 
tions were so plain that Vve could not go astray. You know 
they were to stop for the doctor and the weapons, which of 
course would take some time. Ugh! it’s terrible cold!” and 
Phipps shivers in his great-coat; then begins an exercise of 
shoulder-slapping to keep his blood m circulation. 

“ Cold?” says Harold. “ Pm as hot as fire.” 

Phipps stops short in his exercise, and looks at his friend, 
who has taken off his hat and is wiping the perspiration from 
his brow. A look of pity shadows Phipps’s handsome, honest 
face, and taking Harold’s hand, he presses it, saying: 

“ Come, come, old boy, cheer up. It will soon be over.” 

“ I know that, Phipps— it will soon be all over with me.” 

“ Oh, no, I didn’t mean that; I think our side is going to 
win. AVhat sort of a swordsman are you?” 


THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER. 


167 


“ A very poor one. Have had no experience with the 
sword, save the little practice I was obliged to take in the 
university. 

“ Umph! Tm afraid you^ll find this somewhat different 
from practicing with the sword for amusement,^’ says Phipps, 
in a thoughtful mood, as he scratches his head;, “that is, if 
what they say about the Frenchman is true."’^ 

“ Yes, it is true; he is one of the best swordsmen in Eu- 
rope, Phipps;^^ and now Harold presses Phipps’s hand. “ I 
feel that 1 am destined never to leave this spot alive. You 
have my letter of instruction — ” 

“Which 1 will carry out faithfully,” exclaims Phipps, 
earnestly. 

“ And you will never breathe the cause of this quarrel?” 

“ There is my hand on it,” cries Phipps. “ It shall never 
pass my lips.” 

Eoutledge turns and walks slowly away from his friend. 
If he was not walking about one would think him already a 
corpse. As he told Phipps, he feels sure that he will never 
leave this spot alive. He had a premonition of the end that 
is so near on the day Lilian rejected him, and it has haunted 
him ever since. To see Lilian once more, he thinks now — • 
only once more before he dies. But vain hope! She will know 
nothing of his sad fate until he is cold in death. 

He attaches no blame to Lilian in these that he believes are 
his last moments. He stands with his- arms folded and his 
head bowed. Phipps watches him, but he can find no words 
to express the sympathy his tender heart feels, and overawed, 
he retires to a corner to watch: for the coming of the enemy, 
and leaves Routledge undisturbed. 

“ My only love, she is not to blame for this quarrel,” thinks 
Routledge. “ It was no fault of hers that I wounded the in- 
sufferable vanity, of this fop. In New York he vowed venge- 
ance against me. He boasted in the club, the morning he 
sailed, that he would get even with me if ever I came to Paris. 
Why did I come to Paris?” He shivers as he asks himself the 
question. “ I am not sorry I came. . I have seen her, and 
have learned from her lips that it was not me, but herself, she 
wronged the day she rejected me. What is there to live for? 

“ ‘ A larger work! a nobler aim! 

And what are laurel leaves, and fame?’ 

I have lived for fame long enough; I shall never court it 
again. Death is a relief for me. I shall be: 


168 the EANKEli^S DAUGHTER. 

‘ ‘ ‘ Saved from the curse of time, which throws its baseness on us day 
by day; 

Its wretched Joys and worthless woes, till all the heart is worn 
away. ’ 

“ I feel the death grasp upon me, but 1 care not to shake it 
off. Oh, Lilian, Lilian! may we meet where sorrow can not 
come to either of us! Oh, my God!’^ and he fervently clasps 
his hands — “ oh, my God, whom I always loved and feared, 
be merciful! 

“ ‘ Thou suffered’ St here, and did not fail; 

Thy bleeding fCet these paths have trod: 

But thou wert strong, and I am frail; 

And I am man, and thou wert God.’ ” 

“Eoutledge^' — in a very gentle voice for Phipps — “they 
are coming. 

Harold turns and grasps Phipps’s hand. Their eyes meet, 
and the latter turns away, unable to control his feelings, for 
something tells him that his friend has grasped him by the 
hand for the last time. The sound of footsteps draw near, 
and in another moment Count de Carojae, Moutvillais, and a 
gentleman enveloped in a cloak/ and carrying in his hand a 
black leather case, appear. The gentlemen salute each other, 
and Moutvillais introduces his friend. Dr. Watson, an English 
surgeon. 

“ Believe me,” says Dr. Watson to Koutledge, “ I shall be 
as happy to render my services to you as to my friend here,” 
motioning to the count. 

“ Thank you,” answers Eoutledge, coldly; and Phipps says, 
bluntly, as he stares at the doctor: 

“Jiow very kind!” 

.Moutvillais produces the weapons of death, and Eoutledge 
walks away, leaving poor Phipps in a situation that tries his 
very soul. Moutvillais presents the swords to him for examina- 
tion. Phipps looks bewildered. AVhat is he expected to do? Cer- 
tainly not to stand here showing his ignorance, he thinks, and 
very carefully he takes the gleaming steels from Montvillais, 
and, turning his back upon that gentleman, he pretends to 
examine the swords, but for some moments he only stares at 
them hopelessly. What does he know about swords or duels? 
All he could write on the subject would be what he didn’t 
know about them. Now, if they were only so many pieces of 
silk, he could very soon tell if there was any difference between 
them; but swords, they are not in his line. He turns them 
over and looks at them, measures the length and breadth; he 


THE BAHKER^S DAUGHTER. 169 

can see no difference between them. He turns them over 
again, then, shaking his head, he says to himself: 

“ I haven^’t the slightest choice which should pass through 
my body.y And, with a profound bow, he returns them to 
Montvillais, as if he is fully satisfied with the result of his in- 
spection. 

“ Thank Heaven, that's over! I wonder what comes next?" 
is Phipps's mental comment; and Montvillais says: 

“ Gome, gentlemen." 

The count, who is impatiently gnawing the end of his mus- 
tache, throws off his hat, coat, and vest, and quickly steps for- 
ward in obedience to Montvillais’ call. Routledge, who ap« 
pears perfectly calm, steps from the corner to which he had 
retired, and disrobing himself, takes the sword that Phipps 
has selected, and with a cold, proud demeanor, faces the 
count. 

Phipps shivers with the cold as he says: 

“ Won't they be cold without their coats?" 

The docto^’ smiles and answers: 

“ A little exercise with swords makes them forget the cold." 

By this time the combatants have crossed their swords. 
Montvillais gives the word, and the bloody work begins. In an 
instant Harold feels the strength of his opponent's arm, and 
his own trembles. He knows that he has thrown away his life 
when the parrying begins, and the count knows his victory will 
be an easy one. If he had a particle of honor, he would not 
take advantage of Harold's ignorance; and to ignorance is 
added a whirling brain, a blurred sight. The younger man 
scarce knows how he is warding off the fatal blow when the 
count gives a cry of pain. 

“ Good! our side has drawn the first blood," shouts Phipps, 
as the men drop their swords, and the doctor and Montvillais 
rush to the count's assistance. 

‘‘ Bah! it's nothing," says the count, holding out a bleed- 
ing hand to the doctor, who begins bandaging it at once. 
“ Montvillais," in a whisper, “ it. was not his skill — 'twas his 
awkwardness. I'll finish him now in two passes." 

Phipps is clapping Koutledge triumphantly on the shoulder. 

“ Cheer up, old boy; you'll finish him yet," whimpers 
Phipps, earnestly. 

‘^Oh, no, Phipps, it was only an accident," says Harold, 
wildly; “ that man's arm is made of iron." 

He presses his hand to his feverish brow. 

“ I feel flashes of heat and cold passing over me," he whis- 
pers, as Montvillais says: 


170 . THE BAKKER^S DAUGHTER. 

“ Eeady!’^ 

Koutledge rushes forward and Phippses eyes follow him anx- 
iously. Again the duel begins, and the man with the iron 
arm keeps his word. Two passes, and Harold Eoutledge 
throws^ up his arm, and, staggering back, would have fallen 'to 
the ground, but he is caught in the strong arms of Phipps, 
Count de Carojae’s sword having entered his breast. 

As a cry of alarm escapes Phipps, a hurrying footstep is 
heard in the stone hallway. The count starts in dismay at 
the towering form of John Strebelow, enveloped in a cloak, 
as he appears upon the stone portico. 

“My God! am I too late?^^ he cries, springing into their 
midst, and his face turns white as he sees Eoutledge, sup- 
ported by Phipps, his shirt-bosom dyed with 'blood. “ Is 
there not a doctor here? This man is dying,^^ says Strebelow, 
indignantly, looking from one to the other. 

“I am the doctor, sir; I will take charge of the gentle- 
man,^^ says Dr. Watson, stepping forward and wrapping a 
cloak around Harold. With Phipps’s assistance,*he lays the 
wounded man upon the ground. 

“ Count de Carojae,” says Strebelow, sternly, “ have you 
done this?” 

“ I have, monsieur,” says the count, defiantly, as he coolly 
puts on his coat. 

“ Yes,” shouts Phipps; “ I charge the count with the mur- 
der of Harold Eoutledge.” 

“ Murder!” says the count, contemptuously. 

“Yes,” says Phipps, excitedly; “willful murder! You 
sought this quarrel on the strength of the superiority of your 
skill.” 

“ Hush!” says Strebelow, in an awe-inspiring voice; “ the 
count shall certainly answer for this; but here is not the 
place;” and Strebelow is about to kneel beside the body of the 
prostrate man, whose breathing is scarce perceptible, when a 
piercing shriek fills him with terror and amazement. 

“My God! my wife here?” he murmurs, as he turns and 
beholds Lilian, followed by Florence, running across the clear- 
ing. * 

All eyes are turned upon Lilian. She sees no one but the 
bleeding form upon the ground. 

“Too late! my God, too late!” she shrieks. “Harold, 
Harold, speak to me—forgive me!” and flinging herself on 
her knees beside the prostrate man, she clasps his hand. It 
is like ice, and rubbing it between her palms, she implores him 
again to speak to her— to forgive her. 


THE BAKKER^S HAUGHTEK. 


171 


At the sound of her voice Harold opens his eyes, and fixing 
them on her face, a peaceful smile lights up his own. His lips 
move. She bows her head to catch his vvords. 

“ Lilian — my dying — wish — is gratified. I have seen — 
you— 

He closes his eyes, his features writhe in pain, and a cry of 
anguish from Lilian rends the air. The cry brings back the 
departing soul. The pain has passed, and Harold opens his 
eyes, peace illumining his face once more. 

“There — is nothing — to forgive — Lilian! AVe shall 
meet — 

His face grows brighter, his hand faintly presses her; his 
eyes are fixed on her face. Her tears flow, and she sobs aloud, 
liis hand presses hers closer. His lips move again, but his 
voice is even fainter than before. She strains every nerve to 
catch his words, and she alone can hear them : 

“ ‘ — Do not weep, 

Beloved, but let your smile stay warm about me. 

“ In the Lord they sleep.’' 

You know the words, the Scripture saith: 

O light 1 O glory! — is this death?’ ” 

His eyeg close, and with a heart-broken cry Lilian falls for- 
ward on the prostrate form. 

A never-to-be-forgotten scene for those who witness it. 
Each stands where he was when Lilian appeared, as if rooted 
to the spot. Every head is bowed with reverence and pity, 
save John Strebelow^s and the count’s. The head of the lat- 
ter is bowed, but not in pity. His head hangs because he dare 
not meet the eye of the man standing within a few feet of 
him, standing, tall and erect, looking what he is, a king among 
the men around him, though the heart that beats beneath his 
folded arms is breaking. All doubt is passed. His miserable 
feelings of the past few days are explained. When Lilian 
cried, “ Harold, Harold!” the light broke upon him. It was 
but a repetition of the cry that startled him from his sleep in 
the arm-chair a few nights ago. He has been deceived — de- 
ceived! The air rings with that one word. Deceived, and by 
one whose very thoughts he deemed were as pure as the falling 
snow. The one woman he had loved, to whom ho had de- 
voted his manhood, whom he had raised to the altitude of the 
angels in heaven, and enshrined her m his heart as such, is 
kneeling, there before him, to another man, imploring him to 
speak to her, to forgive her. There has been a chapter in his 
wife’s life that was never opened for his perusal; but he will 
know all now, and as Lilian, with a sob, falls upon Harold, ho 


172 THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER. 

says, with the fearless, manly air that is natural to him, and 
in a clear, stern tone that startles his hearers as it breaks the 
awful silence: 

“ Count de Carojae, the cause of this quarrel?^’ 

The count slowly raises his head. He tries to put on a look 
of pity, of sympathy, as he looks from the husband to the 
wife and back again to the husband. He shakes his head 
with hypocritical sorrow as he says: 

“ Monsieur Strebelow, I would rather not tell you the cause 
of this quarrel.^’ 

“ Count de Carojae and the bearer of the title quails 
before the man that utters it— “ I demand an answer — the 
cause of this quarrel?’^ 

“ \Yell, monsieur, if you must know a fiendish light 
gleams in the count’s eyes, and he gives Phipps, who is shak- 
ing his fist threateningly at him, a smile of contempt — “ your 
^oife^s honor!” • ^ 

John Strebelow steps back, his face grows a shade paler, his 
bosom heaves. The count has shot a poisoned arrow into his 
heart. Silence reigns for some moments, and the fiendish 
Frenchman looks triumphant. 

True, the count’s words cut deep; but John Strebelow is not 
carried away by rage or jealousy. Reason still holds sway. 
If Lilian loved Harold Routledge, it was before she became 
his wife, and Strebelow believes that since the day he married 
her, his honor and her own have been safe in her keeping. The 
count is not long triumphant, for, with a mighty effort to con- 
trol his indignation, and shaking his finger in the count’s face, 
John Strebelow cries in a voice that electrifies those around 
and strikes terror to the heart of the first duelist of Europe: 

“ Count de Carojae, you lie!” 

“Monsieur, you shall answer ’’—stammers the count; but 
the indignant husband, who has raised his wife gently to her 
feet, and drawing her to his bosom as he wraps his cloak about 
her shivering form and coverless head, cries in a thundering 
voice : 

“ Count de Carojae, this lady is my wife, and for her honor 
I will stake my life! Again I say you lie, and for that lie you 
shall answer to me, at a proper time and in a proper place.” 
As the last word falls from his lips he turns from the count, 
who can find no words to answer him, and addresses the doc- 
tor, who is examining Routledge’s wound : 

“ Doctor, is the young man still alive?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Then, while there is a chance to save his life, let no skill 


THE BANKEB^S DAUGHTER. I'/d 

that money can procure be sparer!;'^ and in a voice as gently 
entreating as a child’s, he says: “ Come, Lilian.” 

“ John,” she says, grasping his arm as he attempts to lead 
her away, “ his life must be saved or I shall go mad, for I will 
be his murderer.” She grows heavy on his arm as she speaks, 
and her head drops upon his bosom. 

“ Mrs. Brown, won’t you come? I must get Lilian home 
at once,” says Strebelow, in a voice of alarm. 

Florence has not spoken a word since she came upon the 
ground. She stood beside Lilian as she knelt by Routledge, 
and for the first time we see Florence with a colorless face — a 
pale, frightened, serious face — and from her great black eyes 
the dawning light has vanished, and her awe-stricuen soul 
looks out instead. This is the sensation for which she craved, 
she thinks, with a shudder, as she stands at Routledge’s head, 
.and gazes like one fascinated at the bloody, corpse-like man. 
This is the calamity that she might have prevented but for 
her reckless nonsense. >She is the murderer of the man lying 
there, her old playmate and friend. She tries to throw off the 
sickening sensation that has come over her when Strebelow 
speaks to her. 

“ 1 will go with Lilian,” she answers, in a subdued voice; 
and as she follows John Strebelow she says to herself: “ Poor 
Lilian! what will become of her? She blames herself for this, 
and I might have prevented it. It is all my fault — no one’s 
fault but mine.” 

John Strebelow has taken Lilian in his arms, and is carrying 
her as if she were a child. As Florence is leaving the clear- 
ing, she pauses and looks back at Routledge, and with a 
shiver she draws her frail ball-wrap over her shoulders. She 
can not resist the impulse to go back. If she could only be of 
some service. Phipps sees her standing there, and hurrying 
to her, he says: 

“ Mrs. Brown, you must go home with Mrs. Strebelow. 
You can do no good here, and you will catch your death of 
cold.” 

“ Phipps,” and Florence grasps his hand and appeals to him 
with her frightened eyes, “ you will do all you can for him — 
get another doctor. Remember, Phipps, you said once we 
should always be friends; if you meant that, you will save . 
Routledge for my sake.” 

The trembling voice, the appealing black eyes, the touch of 
her hand are too much for Phipps. Instantly there is an in- 
ternal commotion in the vicinity of his left breast, and press- 
ing her hand with more warmth than is necessary, he says: 


IH THE banker's daughter. 

“ Depend upon me, Florence. Now go. Look, Strebelow 
has reached his carriage. Good-night,^' 

“ Good-night;" and she turns slowly away, leaving the clear- 
ing a sadder but better woman than she entered it. 

“ Make haste, Mrs. Brown; Lilian has fainted,"' says John 
Strebelow, at Florence's approach. 

And as Lilian lies unconscious in the carriage, Florence tells 
John Strebelow, penitently, that it was she that put it into 
Lilian’s head to follow him to the duel-ground. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

“ PERHAPS TO PART FOR JIONTHS — FOR YEARS — PERHAPS 
TO PART forever/' 

When Lilian returns to consciousness she is lying on a sofa 
in her own boudoir, and Florence's anxious face is bending 
over her. 

“ Thank Heaven, you are better, dear," says Florence, with 
a sigh of relief. For half an hour she has been working hard, 
assisted by John Strebelow, to restore Lilian. 

“What has happened?" and Lilian raises herself on her 
elbow and looks around her. “ My God, 1 remember it all!" 
and she sits upright and presses her temples. “ Florence — " 

. Her husband, entering the boudoir, interrupts what she is 
about to say. His face lights as he sees her sitting up talk- 
ing to Florence, and hurrying to her side, he says, in a voice 
as tender and solicitous as ever he used to her: 

“ Are you better, dear?" 

Lilian little dreams what it cost her husband to speak in 
that natural voice. She impatiently waves him away, as she 
says: 

“Yes, yes, I'm better— but Harold Routledge, have you 
heard from him?" 

“ Yes, dear; I have just been talking to Montvillais; '’he 
called to let me know that Routledge was removed to Doctor 
Watson’s house," says Strebelow, soothingly. 

“But what of Routledge — " 

“ He is still alive," says Strebelow. 

“ But is there any hope? For Heaven's sake, tell me the 
truth!" says Lilian, wildly. 

“His condition was about the same when Montvillais left 
him." 

“No better; oh, God, how terrible!" and Lilian rises in 
spite of her husband's efforts to restrain her, and walks the 
floor, sobbing aloud her grief. 


THE BANKER'S DAUGHTER. 


175 


Florence is speechless with terror and anguish. When she 
can command her voice she says: 

Mr. Strebelow, pBrhaps you had better send some one to in- 
quire how Eoutledge is. It will be a relief to Lilian to know — 

' “ Yes, yes/^ interrupts Lilian, wiping her eyes. “ Send at 

once; this suspense will kill me. Oh, God, if he dies, to think 
that I am the cause of itT' and once more sobs shake her 
frame. 

“ Lilian, for Heaven^s sake, calm yourself, and I will send 
at once,^’ says Strebelow, in distress. 

She shrinks from his touch as she cries: 

“ Then send — send at once, and let the messenger make no 
delay. 

John Strebelow hurriedly writes on a leaf of his note-book, 
and ringing for Lisette, who awaits orders in the next room, 
says, as §he appears: 

“ Tell James to take the carriage that is at the^door, drive 
to that address, and bring back an answer as quickly as pos- 
sible."^ 

Lisette disappears with her master"s note and message, and 
Strebelow says: 

“ Lilian, dear, lie on the sofa here, and try to calm yourself 
until the messenger returns. Believe me, you will make your- 
self sick.’" 

“ Calm myself, when perhaps he has already breathed his 
last! Oh, something tells me that he will die! I feel it — and 
you ask me to be calm! 1 think I shall never again know 
what a calm moment is,"" says Lilian, between her wild sobs. 

“ Mr. Strebelow,"" says Florence, who never had any tact, 
but thinks she must say something now to defend Lilian's 
conduct, “ do not look so troubled. Lilian can not help her 
feelings; they are but natural. You know, she thought so 
much of Harold before she was mari’ied. Indeed, they loved 
each other so dearly that every one was surprised when she mar- 
ried you instead of him."" 

Lilian sees her husband bow his head as if he knew all this, 
and her body sways to and fro in anguish. Her sobs choke 
her so that she can not speak, and Florence increases her mis- 
ery by continuing: 

i know how surprised 1 was the day Lilian told me that 
she was engaged to be married to you. , After I left her 1 met 
Eoutledge, and, of course, had to tell him the news. Ugh!'" 
and Florence shivers, I shall never forget — never, if 1 live 
to be a century old— the look that came on poor Eoutledge ’s 
face—"" 


m 


THE banker’s daughter. 


“ Florence!” gasps Lilian, “ don’t— don’t! 1 cannot bear 
to hear you talk about it.” 

Florence sighs and is silent, and John Strebelow turns away 
to hide his grief. He. bowed his head to Florence when she 
said: “You know she thought so much of Harord;” for his 
pride forbade him to show, to such a woman as Florence, that 
he, the husband, was ignorant of a fact known to all his wife’s 
acquaintances. 

“ Great God! how blind 1 have been!” he says to himself, 
as he clasps his hands in agony; “ and how plain it all is to 
me now! She loved Routledge when she married me. My 
God! if that were all; but she has never ceased to love him 
since! The change that I noticed in her the night she prom- 
ised to be my wife, her strange conduct ever since, her unhappy 
moods, the sad ‘Expression the artist caught and transferred to 
his canvas, are all accounted for — ” 

“ Doctor Watson has come, and insists on seeing you,” says 
Lisette as ^e opens the door. 

“ Admit him at once!” cries Lilian, before her husband has 
time to speak, and the next moment Dr. Watson is in the 
boudoir. 

Luckily, Florence is near the door, and John Strebelow 
standing between her and his wife, so she has a chance to 
whisper to the doctor: 

“ Doctor, if you. tell Mrs. Strebelow that Harold Routledge 
is dead, it will cause her death. ” 

The doctor slightly inclines his head. 

“ Doctor, what is the news?” cries Lilian. 

“ Mrs. Strebelow, I came to bid you hope for the best.” 

“ Doctor, is there any hope?” 

“ Mrs. Strebelow, while there is life there is hope. That is 
all 1 can say now.” 

Lilian sinks upon the sofa with a moan, and buries her face 
on the pillow. 

“ And, doctor, you will let me know if any change takes 
place?” says Strebelow, in a trembling voice. 

“ I certainly shall, sir; and Mrs. Strebelow should take 
something to quiet her nerves — ” 

“ I want nothing— nothing. Doctor, will you go and send 
us word at once if there is any change in your patient?” says 
Lilian, raising her head, only to drop it again on the pillow. 

“It is getting so late that I think I had better go, too. 
Brown does not know where 1 am, and I suppose I can do no 
good here.” 

“ Yes, my dear Mrs. Brown, you had better go; the doctor 


THE banker’s DAUaHTER. 


177 


will see you safely home; and, believe me, I thank you for 
your kindness to Lilian,'^ says Strebelow. 

Florence stoops and kisses Lilian, and telling her that she 
will call as early in the day as possible, departs with the doctor. 

John Strebelow walks the floor when he is left alone with 
his wife. He looks at her as he turns his face toward her, and 
he sees that her frame is again shaking with suppressed sobs. 
He hesitates a moment, his face wearing a troubled look, ae if 
he scarce knows what to do. Then, crossing over to her side, 
he says, as he gently smooths her hair: 

“ Don’t cry — don’t cry, Lilian.” 

She raises her head, and wiping her eyes, struggles to calm 
her emotion. 

“ 1 — I am ready— now to hear what you have to say to me,” 
she says, without looking up at him, as she nervously twists 
and untwists her handkerchief. 

“ Why,” he says, in a voice of quiet surprise, ” Lilian, I 
thought it was you that had something to say to me.” 

She shakes her head, but does not look up. 

“ I know— I know my conduct to-night was very impru- 
dent;” and again she pulls nervously at her handkerchief. 
” John, I deserve your censure — ” 

” For to-night’s conduct? Oh, no, Lilian; you acted like a 
noble woman to-night.” 

Again she weeps aloud. If he had spoken harshly to her, 
she could be defiant; but his tenderness touches her heart. 

” But you have something else to say to me, Lilian,” con- 
tinues Strebelow, and tears spring to his eyes. 

Again she shakes her head, and her husband says: 

“ Lilian, 1 will help you. You loved Harold Routledge 
when you married me?” 

He is sure that she did, yet his very life seems to depend on 
the answer that will fall from her lips. 

“Yes.” 

Lilian’s face is buried in her handkerchief. She does not 
see the awful agony of the strong man standing so near her; 
the look of desolation that creeps over his face, the tears that 
he wipes away, the struggle he has with his grief before he 
can control his voice to say : 

“ And — and you quarreled with him, Lilian?” 

“ Yes, we quarreled,” she says, taking her handkerchief 
from her eyes and looking straight before her. “ It was a 
lovers’ quarrel. To torment Harold I received the attentions 
of Count de Oarojae. You know the rest. Harold became 
jealous, and would not speak to me. The count proposed for 


178 


THE BAHKEK'S DAUGHTEE. 

ni.y hand, was rejected, and for it never forgave Harold Kogt- 
ledge, whom he supposed stood between him and me; but 
Count de Carojae was wrong. If I never loved Harold Bout- 
ledge, I could not marry him. In New York I disliked and 
dreaded him as I have since I met him here, and I had good 
cause to do so, as to-night has proved. John, can yoU not see 
now that Routledge's death is the result of my waywardness?'^ 
and again Lilian buries her face in her handkerchief and 
weeps aloud.- 

“ And until yesterday you never met Eoutledge since your 
marriage, Lilian?" 

Again he holds his breath, and his heart seems to stop beat- 
ing as he awaits her reply. 

“ As I came out froni the church your bride, I saw Rout- 
ledge standing in the vestibule. 1 never saw him again until 
yesterda5\" 

A sigh of relief escapes the husband's lips ere he is aware of 
it. There is a flash of surprise in Lilian's eyes as she raises 
them to her husband's face for the first time.- 

“ John Strebelow," she says, in a voice in which there is a 
faint tinkling of indignation, “you have had no cause for 
alarm. Your honor has remained spotless in my keeping, and 
God knows I have always tried to do my duty " 

With a wave of his hand he silences her, and once more her 
^ eyelids dropp, and her fingers twitch nervously. 

Ah, Lilian, Lilian! Heaven help the husband whose honor 
depends on duty alone!" 

Lilian rises and walks the floor to calm the agitation that is 
growing upon her. After some moments, she turns suddenly 
to her husband, who is standing watching her, and she says 
in a trembling, imploring voice: ’ 

“ John, let us drop this subject. I never could bear to talk 
about It; and resuming her walk, her tears flow afresh. 

Lilian, ' he says, in a dreary, heart-broken voice, “ we 
can not drop this subject here. Y"ou must answer me one 
more question— do you still love Harold Routledge?" 

Lilian stands still at this question— the question for which 
she has longed and waited since the first year of her married life 
had passed away. If he had put this question to her yester- 
^ wioiith ago, oi'-a year ago, her answer would have been: 

. My love for Harold Routledge was but a school-girl's in- 
f^atuation. I never knew the meaning .of true love until my 
heart turned to my husband." But to-night, when Harold 
lay dying— dead, perhaps, and she his murderer! his bleeding 
form, lying on the cold ground, is still before her eyes; his 


THE BAKKER^S DAUGHTER. 


179 


lait words are ringing in her ears; her heart, in pity, bleeding 
for the man of whose life she had been the curse — the ques- 
tion is a cruel one, and her only answer is a hysterical burst 
of sobs. 

“ Lilian,^’ her husband repeats, in a sterner tone, “ do you 
still love Harold Routledge?^^ 

“ I — I don^t know,^^ she answers, without uncovering her 
face. 

John Strebelow wrings his hands. This, silent grief un- 
mans him for some moments. When he can control himself 
sufficiently to speak, he says: 

“You don’t know, Lilian? You don’t know the state of 
your own heart?” 

“ No! For Heaven’s sake, John, have done with this sub- 
ject!” and she flings herself on the sofa and buries her face in 
the pillow. 

John Strebelow wipes away the tears that have gathered in 
his eyes. There is a painful expression about his tightly drawn 
mouth. He walks the floor some minutes, then he approaches 
the sofa, as if he has made up his mind how to act. 

“ Lilian, this subject can not be dropped until it is settled 
forever.” 

She does not move, and he continues, in a voice he in vain 
tries to steady: 

“ We can not go on living as we have lived, Lilian. Oh, if 
we alone were the sufferers — but our poor child— the child of a 
loveless, union!” he says, with an uncontrollable burst of grief. 
“ Lilian, we must part. After what you have said we can not 
longer dwell under ope roof.” 

With a sudden cry of pain she starts to her feet, a fright- 
ened look in her ghastly face. 

“ Part, John?” she gasps. “ Oh — ” 

“ Hush, Lilian; let us have no scene. It would unman me, 
and God knows I need all my strength. Our child — ” 

Lilian grasps his arm as she interrupts him with a wild cry, 
and clinging to him, she falls on her knees, saying: 

“ My child, you do not mean that you will take her from 
me?” 

“No, Lilian, no; I will leave you our child, for I know that 
your heart is in her,” he says, bitterly. 

Pride is coming to Lilian’s rescue. Its voice whispers now: 

“ Rise from your knees; do not bumble yourself before one 
who is so ready to give you up.” 

But the thought of parting is breaking her heart, and she 


J80 


THE BAKKEE’S daughter. 


turns a deaf ear to Pride, and with clasped hands upraised to 
her husband, she cries: 

“ John, can you forgive me?’^ 

“ Yes, Lilian, 1 forgive you— freely forgive you,"^ he says, 
placing his hand gently on her head. 

“ And you will not leave me?’^ 

How he is tempted to say no, to raise her from her knees 
and press her to his bosom; but he conquers the temptation. 
To see her every day, to lavish his love and caresses upon her, 
and knowing tliat he does not possess her love, that her heart 
is with another; it would drive him mad. 

Very gently he raises her from her knees as he says: 

“ Lilian, I must leave you — for a time.'^ 

“ For a time!’^ she says, in a gasping voice. 

“ Yes, Lilian, I must leave you until your heart calls for 
me. When your heart calls for me, Lilian, I will return to 
you and to our child. Leave me now.^^ 

She suffers him to lead her to the door, open it for her, and 
shut her out — shut her out from him, perhaps forever. 

She leans heavily against the wall as he closes the door after 
her. She presses her hands to her temples that now seem on 
fire. Until her heart calls for him! As if it had not been 
calling for him for four long 3 ^ears. She grasps the knob of 
the door as if to open it. She will return to her husband and 
tell him that he alone reigns in her heart. Pride stays her 
hand upon the knob. Can he have any love for her? Has 
she not already begged him not to leave her? “ Let him go,' ’ 
says Pride, “ and if he loves you he will not stay long away;" 
and this time Pride conquers. 

“ If he goes 1 shall never call him back. Our parting will, 
indeed, be forever," she says, as she turns away from the door 
with a sob. 

“ My God, how blind, how very blind I have been!" says 
John Strebelow, walking the floor when he closed the door 
after his wife; “ and how plain it all is now. She had not 
seen Routledge since the day she came from the altar as my 
bride and met him in the vestibule of the church. Now I can 
understand his looks and her fainting, and again Routledge's 
manner when I met him the other day and prevailed upon him 
to visit Lilian. She married me to punish Routledge — she said 
as much. She rejected the count because she disliked and 
dreaded him, and she accepted me simply because she could 
tolerate me. Oh, what an object of aversion 1 must have been 
to her at times! Oh, God, this is more than I can bear!" and 


tHE BAKKER^S DAUGHTER. 181 

flinging himself into a chair, he bows his head upon the table 
and weeps like a child. 

So violent is his grief that he does not hear the door open. 
Lisette enters with a letter in her hand. Looking at her mas- 
ter in surprise, she says, in a loud voice: 

“ A letter, sir. 

He does not answer her, and slipping the letter into the 
hand that lays upon his knee, she quietly disappears from the 
room. 

When his grief subsides he raises his head, and as he does 
his eyes fall upon Lilianas, picture that has been removed here 
from the salon. 

“ Ah, those eyes,’^ he says, rising and standing before it, 
“ that revealed to the artist the heart’s secret that dared not 
live, yet would not die. Ah, beautiful face that was my 
guiding star in the past, the prefiguration of my every hope of 
the future. Let the face be veiled to me for the future ” — and 
he let the velvet cover fall over the picture — “ as the heart, 
that sanctuary to vvhose religion 1 was a stranger, has been 
veiled to me in the past.” 

As he turns away from the picture, he sees the letter on the 
floor that dropped from the hand Lisette placed it in when he 
moved. 

“ What is this?” he says, picking it up. 

He sees that it is addressed to himself, and he hastily tears 
open the envelope. It is a note from Dr. Watson. Harold 
Routledge is dead. 

“ Dead!” he says, crushing the paper in his hand — “ dead! 
leaving her a widow with a living husband; leaving me a wife- 
less husband and a childless father — ” 

“ John, what is this I hear?” says Mr. Westbrook, rushing 
into the room. “ My God! your face tells me that it is true!” 
and the banker’s face turns pale. 

“ That what is true?”- says Strebelow, in a low voice. 

“ I was looking through the rooms at the Legation for you 
and Lilian, wondering if you could have gone home without 
me, when I overheard that news of a duel between Count de 
Carojae and Harold Routledge was flying through the city. 
I—”' 

“ Read that,” says Strebelow, handing him the crumpled 
note. 

“ Good heavens! Routledge dead!” 

“ Yes, dead. The duel was tlje settlement of an old resent- 
ment entertained by the count against Routledge, because he 
believed Routledge to bo the more favored suitor of your 


'Me banker's daughter. 

daughter. Lawrence Westbrook, when you gave me your 
daughter’s hand, were you aware that she loved Harold Rout- 
ledge?” 

The banker’s face turns an ashen hue, and he answers in a 
manner that leads Strebelow to doubt his veracity. 

“ No, 1 was not, I thought at one time that Lilian had a 
sort of a school-girl fancy for Routledge, but 1 attached no 
importance to it.” 

“ Mr. Westbrook, you made a grave mistake. Your 
daughter has told me to-night that she loved Routledge when 
she married me. ” 

“ And did she say that 1 knew it?” says the banker, breath- 
lessly; “ that 1 asked her to marry you?” 

“ Oh, no! She said she was piqued with Routledge, and she 
married me to punish him,” says Strebelow*, bitterly, as he 
turns away from the banker. 

“ Lilian has saved me again,” the banker thinks. “ Thank 
Heaven!” John Strebelow does not know how he has deceived 
him, and he breathes more freely. 

” Your daughter loves Routledge still,” says Strebelow. 

“Oh! impossible, Strebelow!” 

“ I put the question to her, Mr. Westbrook; she could not 
deny it, and — we have parted.” 

“ Strebelow!” and the banker no longer breathes freely. 

“ We have parted, Mr. Westbrook. I give you back your 
daughter; and may she be happier with 3 ^ou, in the homo of 
her childhood, than she has been wdth me since she left it.” 

“ But, Strebelow — ” 

“ There is no use of trying to persuade me; my mind is 
made up. Lilian returns with you to America. 1 leave to 
her our child, and the greater part of my fortune shall be at 
her disposal. Mr. Westbrook, wLen your daughter can re- 
turn the great love I bear her, I shall return to her — if 1 am 
living. To-morrow — or rather to-day, for in a few hours it 
will be daylight — 1 shall meet the Count de Carojae, whom I 
have challenged — ” 

“ Great heavens! you are not mad enough to do this, John !” 

“ As I have said, Mr. Westbrook, my mind is made up to 
what I shall do, and I can not be turned from it. Excuse me 
now, as I have papers to prepare that I wish to leave with you, 
and-—” 

Strebelow does not finish the sentence aloud as he leaves the 
room, but whispers to himself in a heart-broken voice: 

“ I must see Natalie.” 

“ My God! to think that, after five years, it should turn out 


THE banker’s daughter. 


183 


like this!” says the banker to himself, in a voice of sorrow. 
“ After all, it is the falsification of my prophecy, and the justi- 
fication of Aunt Fanny’s, ” 


CHAPTER XXXIl. 

ANOTHER LIFE AT STAKE. 

‘‘ Lisette, bring Natalie here,” says Lilian, when she rises 
from a short, dull slumber a few hours later. 

Lilian’s eyes are red and swollen, yhe cried herself into the 
heavy sleep from which she awoke with a cold, miserable feel- 
ing. The wintery sunshine steals faintly through the window, 
falling upon her as she sits wi-apped in a fleecy shawl before a 
glowing fire, touching up her golden hair until bright, bur- 
nished spots dance all over it; but the heat of sunshine, fire- 
light, and her warm wrap combined, is not sufficient to take 
the icy chill from her brtfcd. 

“ Natalie!” she cries, in surprise and alarm, as her eyes 
fall on her little daughter, who is led in by Lisette, and.spring- 
ing from her chair, she clasps the child in her arms. 

“ Lisette, you may go,” she says, in a trembling voice. 
And Lisette, who loves her mistress dearly, leaves the room 
with a sigh, for she knows that some awful sorrow has fallen 
upon the house. 

“ Natalie,” cries Lilian, sitting the child upon her knee, 
and looking down at her face, ” your eyes are red — you have 
been crying — ” 

“ And so have you, mamma — your eyes are red. Has — has 
papa said good-bye to you, too?” And the little thing begins 
to cry again. 

“ Oh, my darling, my darling!” is all Lilian says; but 
there is the wail of a broken heart in her voice; and pressing 
her child to her bosom, scalding tears drop from her burning 
eyes. 

“Mamma, what is the matter? Won’t papa come back 
any more?” 

“ What did your papa say to you, darling? Hid he tell you 
that he was going away?” says Lilian, wiping her eyes, and 
struggling to calm herself. 

“ I was asleep, and 1 thought some one was crying awful 
hard, and I opened my eyes, and papa was leaning over me, 
wiping his eyes, and my face was all wet with his tears. 1 put 
my arms Ground his neck, and 1 says: ‘ Don’t cry, papa;’ but 
then he cried harder, and he says: ‘ Natalie, I’m going away. 


184 


THE BAKKER’s daughter. 


Perhaps you won'fc see papa for a long time. You won’t for« 
get me, will you, Natalie?’ ‘ Oh, papa! you mustn’t go away,’ 
I says. He took me in his arms and hugged and kissed me, 
and he says: ‘Natalie, 1 must go; and you won’t forget to 
pray for papa every night and morning, will you, darling?’ 
And he hugged me so hard that 1 was frightened; and 1 says: 
‘No, papa.’ Then he kissed me, and never said another 
word, but dropped me so quick and ran away. Then I lay 
there and cried until Lisette came to dress me.^’ 

Lilian holds her child close to her heart. Her burning eyes 
refuse to shed another tear. Dry, hysterical sobs convulse her 
as Natalie finishes her recital. 

“ Mamma, shall I call Lisette? You are sick,” says the 
little thing, frightened because her mother does not speak. 

“ No, darling; it is nothing. I’ll be better in a moment;” 
and Lilian makes a desperate effort to be calm in the presence 
of her child. • 

“ I wish you wouldn’t let papa go away, mamma?” 

Lilian is conscience-stricken by the child’s appealing words 
and look. For her child’s sake she will humble her pride. She 
will tell her husband, when he comes to say good-bye to her, that 
her heart bids him stay. With this good resolution she kisses 
Natalie, and seats her on a foot-stool before the grate, saying: 

“ Mamma won’t let papa go^ darling, if she can keep him 
back.” 

Having made the child comfortable, Lilian bathes her swol- 
len eyes, rearranges her hair, and rings for Lisette. . 

“ Is Mr. Strebelow at home, Lisette?” 

“No, madame; he left a sealed paper with James for Mr. 
Westbrook, and then went out— that was about an hour ago. 
He had his traveling-coat with him — ” 

“ Lisette, say to my father that I wish to see him here,” a 
look of horror creeping over Lilian’s face as she speaks. 

“ Mr. Westbrook is not in. When he came down to break- 
fast, James handed him the package that master left for him. 
He opened it at once and read some of the papers; then he 
left the house in a hurry — in such a hurry that he never tasted 
a mouthful, and forgot the packet of papers.” 

“ How long had your master been gone when my father left 
the house?” cries Lilian, quickly. 

“ Fifteen minutes. 1 know the time, for I heard Mr. West- 
brook ask James how long his master had been gone, and that 
was his answer.” 

“ It is as I thought,” says Lilian to herself. “ My father 
knows Jolm Strebelow has gone, and he has followed him. 


THE banker's daughter. l85 

thinkiner he can overtake him and persuade him to return to 
me.^" ^ 

“ Lisette/^ she says, aloud, “ where are the papers that my 
father forgot?^’ 

“ 1 believe James took charge of them. 

“ Say to him that I want them, and bring them to me.’^ 

Lilian walks the floor, forgetful of the presence of her child, 
whose wondering blue eyes are fixed upon her. 

“ Gone,^^ she says, aloud, as she wrings her hands in agony 
— “ gone, and not a word of farewell to me, save what he ut- 
tered last night 

“ Is grandpa gone too, mamma?’^ says the child, who is list- 
ening attentively to her mother^s words. 

“No, no, darling; grandpa will come back,'^ says Lilian, 
patting the child on the head. 

“ And won't papa?" 

‘ I don't know, dear. " 

“ Here is the package, madame,'’ says Lisette, returning to 
the room. 

“ Lisette, take Natalie and amuse her. Doesn't Natalie want 
her doll?" asks Lilian, coaxingly, as she stoops and kisses the 
child. 

‘ Yes, mamma." 

“ Then take her to the play-room, Lisette," says Lilian, 
wishing to get rid of the child before she looks at the papers. 

When Lisette takes the child away, instead of examining 
the papers, Lilian lays them on the table. She dreads to learn, 
beyond a doubt, that her husband has really left her. How 
could he leave her so easily, she thinks, as she stands looking 
at the blazing fire, when her heart is breaking for him! He 
would never take this step if he loved her. Now she is con- 
vinced that it was duty alone made him act the tender, loving 
husband for a long time back. What a trying part it must 
have been for him day after day. 

“ He meant himself when he said we can no longer live as 
we have lived," she says, bitterly, as she turns to the papers 
again. 

As she raises the package from the table, she sees Harold 
Roiitledge's name written on a sheet of paper that has been 
crumpled, but now lies open on the table. She snatches it up 
and reads it. It is Dr. Watson's note. 

“ Dead!" she cries, and sinking in a chair, she covers her 
face with her hands, and for some minutes sits motionless. 
“ Dead! and 1 am responsible for it," she says when she 
uncovers her face. ’“ He loved me truly, and while he lay 


1B6 ' THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER. 

cljRDg 1 had almost forgotten him. My heart was peaking, 
and is now — not for his unfortunate fate, but for the hus- 
band that cares nothing for me. Oh, God! what a selfish 
creature 1 am! Harold, Harold! if you only knew how I 
am punished!’' and again she buries her face in her hands. 

A few minutes later she rises from the chair, apparently 
more calm, and again taking up the package, this time ex- 
amines its contents. There are two sealed papers, and an 
open letter addressed to her father. This, then, will tell her 
all she wants to know. Evidently it was all her father read 
before he himself left the house. She only read the first two 
lines: “ I leave Paris for Eome, where 1 intend to reside, that 
is, if I survive the encounter with Count de Carojae, which 
will take place before night — " Harold Routledge is forgot- 
ten. Another life is in jeopardy, a life that is a part of her 
life. Lisette, in the play-room across the hall, hears a sharp 
cry, a heavy fall, and rushing to the boudoir, she finds her 
mistress lying prone upon the floor. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

HAROLD ROUTLEDGE REVENGED. 

Several hours pass before Lilian becomes conscious of 
what is going on around her. The lengthening shadows of 
evening are falling across the room when she opens her eyes 
and looks about her. For some moments she can not dis- 
tinctly remember what has happened. She is lying on the bed 
in her own room. She hears whispering voices, and raising 
herself on her elbow, she sees Florence and her father talking 
together. 

“ What a pity it could not have been kept from her," she 
hears Florence say. 

“ 'ies," her father answers, with a sigh; “ my forgetting 
these papers in my hurry told her all. What I shall do to 
comfort her when she revives I do not know." 

“ Then you didn't overtake John?" Lilian says, in a faint, 
broken voice. 

If the dead had spoken Florence could not have been 
more surprised and frightened. With a little scream she 
bounds from her chair and stares at Lilian. The banker, 
filled with alarm, rises and crosses over to his daughter's 
bedside. 

“My! how she frightened me," says Florence, drawing a 
long breath as she presses her hand over her heart. 


THE banker’s daughter. 187 

“Thank Heaven! you are better, my daughter,” ‘says the 
banker. 

“ Father, answer me: have you heard anything — ” 

“ Nothing yet, Lilian; but let us hope for the best. The 
authorities are looking for the Count de Oarojae; it isn’t like- 
ly that he will meet John,” 

“ And you could not trace my husband when you left 
here?” 

“ No; he left here unattended, and I could find no clew to 
what direction he took. ” 

“ Oh, if I had only known in time!” says Lilian, clasping 
her hands. 

“ What could you do, Lilian?” says Florence, soothingly. 
“ If he was determined to meet the count, you could not pre- 
vent it. You know the count insulted him, and not only him 
but you, grossly. I believe John Strebelpw is able to punish 
him, and I hope he will;” and Florence gives her head an in- 
dignant toss. 

“ John Strebelow is a fine swordsman — ” 

“ Oh, father, hush!” says Lilian, with a shudder. “ Have 
you seen Mr. Phipps to-day?” 

“No.” 

“ Have you looked for him?” 

“No.” 

“ Then do so at once,” says Lilian, feverishly. “ If you 
can find him, I think he will be able to give you some infor- 
mation.” 

“ What makes you think so?” says Florence. 

“ I believe, sooner than bring another party into this un- 
happy affair, John would ask Phipps to be his second. Oh, 
father, why do you stand here idle? Is not the blood of one 
enough at my door?” and Lilian falls back upon the pillow, 
and covering, her face, sobs aloud. 

“ Lilian, this excitement is endangering your life. Think 
of your little child, and try to calm yourself,” says the banker, 
who is indeed solicitous about Lilian’s life. “ I have done all 
in my power — ” 

“Mr. Phipps is waiting to see you, sir,” interrupts Lisette, 
entering the room. 

“ It is as I thought; Mr. Phipps has come with news,” cries 
Lilian. ‘ “ I will go to him.” 

She struggles to rise, but falls back exhausted on the pil- 
low. 

“ Let your father go, Lilian,” says Florence; “ you are too 
weak to stand»'^ 


188 


THE banker’s daughter. 


“ Father, father,” says Mian, faintly, “ promise that you 
will tell me the truth. ” 

She tries to grasp her father’s hand as she speaks. The 
banker takes her hand in his, and says: 

“ Lilian, if Phipps has any news, you shall hear it.” 

Poor Florence walks the floor. She is unable to offer a word 
of comfort to Lilian, for her heart seems to rise to her throat 
while the banker is gone. All this trouble is the result of her 
foolishness. If she could only live the last twenty-four hours 
over again, she would save Boutledge’s life, and, perhaps, * 
John Strebelow’s, thinks Florence, with a feeling of horror. 

“ How long my father is away!” says Lilian, breaking the 
silence. 

“ It seems as if he would never come,” is Florence’s con- 
soling answer; and, indeed, it does seem so to her, though 
scarce fifteen miniates pass away before the banker returns. 

“ Any news from John?” says Lilian, breathlessly. 

“ Yes, my daughter;” and the banker’s voice inspires Flor- 
ence with hope. “ PTere is a message from him;” and he 
hands a sheet of paper to Lilian, upon which a few lines are 
written. She grasps it and reads: 

“ Am safe across the frontier. Had a desperate encounter 
with the Count de Carojae. 1 escaped with a slight wound. 
He will* never fight another duel. Harold Routledge is re- 
venged. ” 

“ Thank God, he is safe!” she murmurs, and handing 
the paper back to her father, she lies back upon the pillow 
and cries softly. 

Mr. Westbrook hands the paper to Florence. 

“ I knew John Strebelow was able to do it!” cries Florence, 
triumphantly. “ Lilian, you ought to be thankful.” 

“1 am thankful that John is safe; but more bloodshed!. 
Oh, it is terrible!” 

“ See that Lilian gets another sleeping powder,” says Flor- 
ence to Mr. Westbrook, “ and she will be all right to-morrow 
morning. I must go home now, dear,” turning to Lilian; 
“ when Brown is sick he is so peevish I can not remain any 
length of time away from him.” 

“ Hot a word has he sent to me,” says Lilian to herself, 
when Florence leaves her. 

Now that she knows her husband is out of danger, her 
thoughts again turn to his treatment of herself. 

“ Not a word to me. . Well, it is in keeping with the man- 
ner in which he left me,” 


THE banker’s daughter. 189 

Her thoughts take a bitter turn as Lisette administers the 
sleeping draught. 

“ He is treating me thus because 1 will not humble myself 
to him, beg his forgiveness, tell him my heart cries out for him 
— in a word, that I can not live without him. I~1 shall 
never do that,” she says — “ never;” and her eyelids droop. 

The draught has taken effect. Lilian is asleep. 

“ She is asleep, sir,” says Lisette to the banker, who steals 
softly into the room. 

“ Then you can go, Lisette; when I am tired watching I 
shall call you.” 

When Lisette leaves the room, the banker crosses over to his 
daughter’s bedside, and stands watching the white face' against 
the pillow. Within twenty-four hours the banker has grown 
ten years older. His sorrow is plainly written on his face; and 
why shouldn’t he be conscience-stricken? His daughter is 
lying here, her happiness destroyed forever. Her husband is 
flying to Eome, a broken-hearted man. Harold Routledge is 
dead, De Carojae is dead and who is to blame for all this? 
The banker’s body sways to and fro over his daughter’s bed, 
for he knows that it is he alone who is to blame. 

Lilian awakens next morning refreshed and strengthened 
after her long sleep, but the dull pain in her heart makes itself 
felt once more as she misses the good-morning kiss, the gen- 
tle touch of the manly hand upon her head, that always 
seemed like a morning blessing. Tears spring to her eyes, 
but she quickly brushes them away. He left her. If the 
separation cost him a pang, he could never have torn himself 
away so easily. If he had one nice thought of her, he would 
not have left her at the moment he did, after a duel had been 
fought that involved her name, her honor. What was the 
world to think? Could she blame the world for pointing the 
finger of scorn at her? Then no more tears. She will not go 
about with forlorn looks and heavy, red eyes, for the world 
to think her a penitent. These are her calm thoughts this 
morning as the heavy, dull moments drag by. She rises early 
and dresses herself without assistance, and an hour later her 
father is surprised when he enters the breakfast-room and 
sees her and Natalie seated at breakfast. 

“ My daughter, I am glad to see you looking so much bet- 
ter,” says the banker, kissing her. 

“lam quite well this morning,” answers Lilian, quietly. 
Little more is said. It is a breakfast in name only. Lilian 
has scarce touched her food; the banker has not done much 
better. 


190 


THE BANKER S DAUGHTER. 


“ The morning is fine,’’ says Lilian, rising from the table. 
“ Wouldn’t you like to take^a^walk with Lisette, Natalie?” 

“ Yes, mamma; I haven’t been out in three whole days,” 
answers the little one. 

“ Then you shall go to-day. Lisette will dress you at 
once;” and Lilian is about to lead the child from the room 
when her father says: • 

“ Lilian, I have something to say to you.” 

“ Then 1 shall ring for Lisecte, and you can say it now,” 
says Lilian, in the same quiet tone. 

Lisette comes, receives Lilian’s orders, .and takes Natalie 
away. 

“ Now, father, I am ready to hear what you have to say.” 

The banker clears his throat, and there is a pause of a few 
moments ere he says: 

“ Your husband, Lilian, has placed you under my protec- 
tion. ” 

“ That is very kind of him,” says Lilian, sarcastically; but 
her under lip trembles, and she walks over to the window to 
hide the expression of her face. 

“ Lilian,” says her father, rising and taking a step toward 
her, “you should never have allowed your husband to leave 
you.” 

“Certainly, father, I should not,” says Lilian, turning 
quickly, a faint fiush on her cheek. “ Love, honor, obedience 
are always expected of the woman. 1 -should have humbled 
myself to the dust, as a matter of course, to have kept my 
lord by my side. Father, talk no more of this to me. How 
did you expect such a marriage as mine to end?” 

“ But after five years, Lilian.” 

“ Yes, and we might have lived five years more together, 
and five more after that, but the end would come all the same. 
Father, if you wish to do me a kindness, you will talk no more 
about this unhappy affair, and make arrangements for our re- 
turn home as speedily as possible.” 

“Very well, Lilian; be it as you say,” says the banker, 
humbly, as he leaves the room. * 

“ Oh, I am so glad that you are better, Lilian!’’ says Flor- 
ence, when she calls about noon. “ 1 really was frightened 
about you yesterday.” 

“ My dear Florence, one doesn’t die so easily as you think.” 

Florence sighs, and says, with such earnestness that Lilian, 
in her deep sorrow, can not refrain from smiling: 

“ 1 know it, Lilian; 1 thought Brown woqld not live a year 
when I married him/' 


THE BAKKER^S DAUGHTER. 


191 


“ How is Mr. Brown to-day?’^ asks Lilian. 

“ Just as well as ever he was in his life/' says Florence, 
with another sigh; then bending over Lilian, she says, in a 
whisper: “ Harold's body is to be removed this afternoon." 

“Removed! where?" 

“ He is to be buried in Italy. That was his instruction to 
Phipps; and there is to be a large funeral this afternoon; the 
Society of Artists has charge of it. Bitter feeling against 
Alfonse de Carojae ran high, and when the news of his 
death got about, there was great rejoicing." 

Lilian shivers, but makes no reply. Silence falls between 
them for some minutes, and as if she does not wish to con- 
tinue the subject, Lilian says: 

We are going back to New York as soon as possible, 
Florence — perhaps you would like to go with us." 

“ Would like to go with you? You may be sure 1 will not 
remain here an hour after you," says Florence. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

AN “awful bereavement." 

A STYLISH equipage dashes up Fifth Avenue and halts at 
the door of the New York banker, Lawrence Westbrook. 
The owner of this aristocratic turn-out certainly does not be- 
lieve that 

" They truly mourn that mourn without a witness;” 

for /he coachman, footman, and shining black horses are 
decked out in most elaborate trappings of the deepest woe. 
Nor is it of recent putting on; for nearly two years this mov- 
ing mourning show has attracted the attention of New 
Yorkers. 

The mourning-clad footman springs from his seat when the 
coachman draws his reins, and, opening the carriage door, 
the head of the mourning establishment steps forth —a widow 
of twenty-five, looking scarce twenty. Poor thing! she tries 
hard enough to look pensive, to show the grief she does not 
feel. An enemy to the peace of the masculine hearts is this 
charming young widow, whose cheeks are rosy and eyes mis- 
chievous, despite her voluminous quantities of bombazine and 
crape. Very stately and solemnly she tries to walk up the 
steps of the banker's residence. 

“ Is Mrs. Strebelow or Mrs. Holcombe at home?" she says 
to the servant who opens the door. 


192 


THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER. 


“ Botli the ladies are at home,"’ is the answer. 

“ That will do, then; I shall find them;” and she walks 
upstairs with an air of one that is quite at home. 

“ Good-day, Mrs. Holcombe/" she says^ to a lady who is 
coming out of one of the rooms on the lauding above. 

AVe have not seen Aunt Fanny in seven years. She is the 
same sweet, motherly looking woman, but there is a settled 
look of grief on her face, as if she has taken some sorrow 
deeply to heart. 

“ Good-day, Florence; I am glad you have come. You 
may be able to cheer Lilian."" 

“ How is she to-day?” 

“Worse."" 

“ Worse, worse; that is the answer every day,” says Flor- 
ence, with a troubled air. 

“ l"m sorry to say it is the truth, Florence; I can see Lilian 
sink lower and lower every day;"" and Aunt Fanny’s answer 
reveals the cause of her heart’s sorrow. 

“ Her pride will be her death. She ought to be saved in 
spite of herself. 1. mean to think of a way to do it. ” 

“ If you only could, my dear,” says Aunt Fanny, quickly. 

“ Depend upon me to try,” says Florence, with a quick nod 
of her head. “ Is Lilian in her boudoir?” 

“ If you are going to speak to her of her husband, my dear, 
be careful how you come around it. Since the day she came 
home she has never permitted me to mention his name the 
second time to her."" 

“ If I want to mention him to her, I shall, and I’d like to 
know how she is going to prevent it;” and Florence breaks 
out in her well-remembered, reckless manner, forgetting, as 
she often does, the sad, thoughtful air which she knows she 
ought to wear. 

When Florence opens the boudoir door, Lilian is sitting in 
a cushioned chair before the grate. Her little slippered feet 
rest upon the fender. Her elbow is leaning on the arm of her 
chair, and her loose sleeve,, falling away, reveals an arm no 
longer beautiful, but as thin and wasted as the wan, spiritual 
face that her hand supports. Her eyes seem unnaturally 
large, and in their depths is a far-away look, a look that 
makes one think she is not of this world. Lilian Strebelow is 
fast dying— slipping away under the eyes of loving relatives 
and friends, without moan or murmur, and they have not the 
power to save her. Medical skill can not reach the malady 
that shows its progress every day. She herself is the only one 
that can effect a cure. She is dying for her husband’s love. 


193 


THE BANKEIl^S DAUGHTEE. 

She has only to say the word, and it will be hers; but she will 
die rather than utter it. Poor, silly woman, she ought to die, 
some might be hardened enough to say; but, knowing Lilian 
Strebelow^s heart, one could not be so harsh. Two years ago 
it vyould have been an easy matter, compared with to-day, lor 
Lilian to call her husband back; to tell him that without his 
love she must die; but every day that passed widened the gulf 
between them. For two years she has received no word from 
him, and during this time he has been corresponding regularly 
with his child. He must know that the child^s mother reads 
those letters, and not one word in them was ever addressed to 
her. Her name was never mentioned, except in one set 
phrase: “ I hope your mamma is well.P Months passed, and 
Lilian was buoyed up with the hope that a letter would come to 
Natalie bearing a message for her. She only wanted one word 
of encouragement to open her heart to her husband, but that 
one word never came. His object in writing to his little 
daughter was to keep himself green in her memory, and not 
to eSect a reconciliation with the mother, as Lilian at first 
hoped ; and there came a day when hope was dead, and from 
that day Lilian failed, until, sitting there in the fire-light, she 
looks but the shadow of her former self. 

When Florence opens the door, Lilian is sitting in the same 
position before the fire, her hand supporting her chin, as she 
sat one day seven years ago, when Florence rushed in upon 
her and she broke the astonishing news to her that she was 
about to marry John Strebelow. What a change there is in 
Lilian to-day. What she has suffered in seven years for being 
the possessor of a heart can be all the better judged by taking 
another look at the face in the door-way framed in widow’s 
ruching. The only change perceptible in Florence is the color 
of her dress. Her “ awful bereavement,’’ as she says, when 
speaking of the loss of her husband, with such plaintive ear- 
nestness that one, looking in her eyes, can scarce keep from 
laughing at her, is only seen in the depths of her bombazine 
folds and crape ruchings. 

“ My dear Lilian, how do you do to-day?” says Florence, 
as she enters the room and crosses to Lilian’s chair. 

Lilian starts from her thoughtful position, and answers; 

“ Quite well — ” 

“ Quite well?” interrupts Florence; “you can’t make me 
believe that, Lilian.” 

Lilian shrugs her shoulders and smiles faintly. This is the 
only notice she takes of Florence’s remark. 

“ Won’t you take off your hat, Florence?” 


194 


THE BAHKEK^S DAUGHTER. 


“ Thanks, no; I am going in a few minutes. 1 only called 
to inquire how you are. You are not quite well, Lilian, and 
you know it as well as I do. This life is killing you. My 
dear, you want a change. Will you let me prescribe for you?'^ 

“ 1 am iistening,^^ says Lilian, with another faint smile, as 
she leans wearily back in her chair. 

“ You want change of air — 

“ Wait till the summer and I shall go to the mountains,’^ 
says Lilian, looking into the fire. 

“ The mountains, bah! You must cross the ocean. The 
air of Europe — of Eome — is what will benefit you,^^ says 
Florence, giving emphasis to her words by a nod of her head. 

Florence fixes her eyes on Lilianas face to watch the effect 
of her words. Apparently they have no effect. The wan 
face is perfectly calm, the eyes do not stir from the fire as she 
answers, in a quiet, steady voice : 

“ If ever I cross the ocean again I must be carried by sheer 
force. 1 shall never go of my own free will — I have had 
enough of Europe.^^ 

Lilian speaks so very quietly that Florence looks at her in 
astonishment; but receiving no attention from Lilian, she too 
looks at the blazing coals, and silence reigns for some mo- 
ments. 

“ Lilian,^’ says Florence, abruptly, turning her eyes once 
more on the white face, “ you surely know that you grow 
weaker every day?’^ 

“ 1 believe that 1 am not as strong as 1 was,’’ says Lilian, 
wearily. 

“ And the day will soon be here, Lilian, when you will 
have no strength left, and — do you never think qf Natalie? 
If anything happens you, Lilian, what of her? What is to 
become of your little child if you die?” And Florence’s black 
eyes twinkle, for she knows she has touched upon the right 
chord. 

Lilian’s face is no longer calm. The muscles of her mouth 
twitch, and from the eyes, that still adhere to the fire, a tear 
rolls down either cheek. Her hands nervously clasp the arms 
of her chair, and there is a pause before she says: 

“ If I should die Natalie will be well taken care of.” 

“ But she won’t have her mother, Lilian,” says Florence, 
plaintively. 

Lilian gives a little gasp as she says: 

“ She will have her father.” 

Florence’s heart gives a little bound of delight as Lilian 
mentions her husband. 


THE banker's daughter. 


195 


“ Florence," continues Lilian, “ I stand between my hus- 
band and his child — perhaps it would be as well if 1 were out 
of the way." 

“You think your child would have the best of care?" 

“ Yes. John Strebelow's heart is in his child; he is suffer- 
ing martyrdom away from her. She could never have better 
care than he would give her." 

“ Yes, John Strebelow is a good man," says Florence, de- 
murely. 

“ A better man can scarce be found," says Lilian, quietly. 

“ Umph! That speaks badly for you, my dear. If he is 
such a good man, whose fault is it that he is on one side of 
the Atlantic and you on the other?" 

“ Florence," says Lilian, quickly, looking her friend in the 
face for the first time since their conversation began, “ it is 
needless for me to say that 1 regard you as the dear sister you 
have been to me. Think it my faulty if you will, that the 
ocean rolls between me and my husband; but even with you I 
can not discuss the question;" and Lilian's eyes turn slowly 
back to the fire. 

Florence is nonplused; but she makes another attempt. 

“ Lilian, I will talk to you — ” 

“ Then ITl leave you this instant," says Lilian, rising. 

Florence pushes her back into her chair, as she cries, im- 
petuously: 

“Don't go, Lilian; ITl not say another word; but," she 
thinks, “ I know something else I can do, and I shall do it." 

Lilian quietly leans back in her old position, as she says: 

“ Haven't you any news, Florence?" 

Instantly Lilian's troubles are forgotten by Florence. That 
question reminds her that she has trouble of her own. 

“ News!" she cries. “ I should say I had;" and Florence 
leans back in her chair, pouts her red lips, and beats a tattoo 
with her foot. 

“ Nothing serious, I hope," says Lilian, looking at her. 

“ Of course it is nothing serious — that is, in other people’s 
estimation. No one believes that there is ever anything seri- 
ous the matter with me. Lilian, Phipps sailed for Europe 
yesterday afternoon." 

Florence pauses, and Lilian says: 

“ Well?" 

“ And he came and said good-bye to me, just as he would 
to you or anybody else. What do you think of that?" 

Lilian scarcely knows what to think; indeed, she is powerless 


196 


THE EANKEK’S daughter. 


to answer the question; worse, she can hardly keep from 
smiling in Florence’s face. 

“ 1 declare, George Washington Phipps hasn’t tbe least bit 
of sentiment. There!” and Florence jerks a dainty bit of cam- 
bric and lace from her pocket and applies it to her eyes. 

“ I wouldn’t cry, dear,” says Lilian, who thinks she ought 
to say something sympathetic. 

“.Of course you wouldn’t,” says Florence, taking her hand- 
kerchief from her eyes, “ because you have a heart of stone, 
Lilian Strebelow. It is always the way, when one has a warm, 
loving heart, one has to suffer so much;” and again Florence 
applies her handkerchief. 

“ Indeed, I feel for your suffering, Florence;” but a faint 
smile hovers over Lilian’s face. 

“ See here, Lilian,” says Florence, bending over her with a 
confidential air, “ 1 want your opinion. It is nearly two 
years since my awful bereavement. Now, do you think it 
would be mol aproj^os for Phipps to show just a little feeling 
for me, if he had any?” 

“Perhaps Mr. Phipps thinks it would be,” says Lilian, 
hesitatingly, not wishing to give her ojhnion; “ or may-be he 
thinks any demonstration of feeling on his part would be 
offensive. You know that Mr. Phipps is a blunt, honest fel- 
low, without any tact in love-making. I think if you encour- 
aged him—” 

“ Oh, don’t 1 encourage him?” interrupts Florence, vehe- 
mently. 

“ How long is he going to remain away?” 

“ A month. You know he never has any time to lose. It 
is just one year and eleven months to-day since my awful be- 
reavement. Poor, dear Brown, may his soul rest in peace!” 
says Florence, -with a sigh. 

“ Then have patience until Mr. Phipps returns. Perhaps 
he may be waiting for your two years of widowhood to ex- 
j)ire.” 

“ I suppose I must have patience,” says Florence, rising.' 

“ Are you going so soon?” 

“ Yes; but to-morrow I will spend the day with you. Where 
is Natalie?” 

“ In the nursery, if. she is not ^^ith Aunt Fanny. Shall .1 
call her?” 

“ Oh, no; I shall find her and give her a kiss as I go out,” 
says Florence; and, kissing Lilian, she departs. 


THE BANKEll's DAUGlITEE. 


197 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

NATALIE^S JLETTER. 

Florence goes from the boudoir to the nursery, but she 
does not take this trouble simply to give Natalie a kiss, as she 
told Lilian. In the nursery she finds Natalie and Lisette. 
The little girl loves Florence, and the moment she sees her 
she throws aside her housekeeping cares — she was setting her 
miniature parlor to rights when Florence appeared — and runs 
to meet her. 

“ Good-morning, little darling.” 

“ Good-morning, Auntie Brown,” says Natalie, in whom 
-two years have made a wonderful change, as she clasps Flor- 
ence's waist in her arms. 

“ Lisette, you can leave us. I want to speak to Natalie. 
I will ring for you when I am going away.” 

Lisette takes her sewing and leaves the room, and Flor- 
ence, putting her arm around Natalie, sa 3 ^s: 

“ Come and sit beside me on the sofa, dear; 1 want to 
speak to you about your papa. ” 

“About my papa! Oh! Fm so glad. No one ever speaks 
to me about papa, only Aunt Fanny,” says the child, as she 
seats herself upon the sofa near Florence. 

“ When did you receive your last letter from papa, dear?” 

“ Thursday, last week.” 

“ And you have answered it?” 

“ Oh, yes, the very same day 1 got it.” 

“ Who writes your letters to papa for you, Natalie?” 

“ I write them all myself — no, not quite all. When I come 
to a long word mamma takes my hand, and slie sees that I 
spell my words correctly, but 1 do all the rest myself,” says 
the child, proudly. 

“ Then your mamma tells you what to write?” 

“No, never. 1 write just what 1 please — except — ” 

“ Except what, dear?” sa 3 ^s Florence, as the child pauses. 

“ When I want to write about mamma, I can't write what 
I please. Mamma will only let me say the same three words 
about her in every letter,” says Natalie, looking grieved. 

“ What three words are they?” says Florence, drawing the 
child nearer to her. 

“ ‘ Mamma is well,' ” answers Natalie. 

“ Then you never tell your j^ap^i the truth, Natalie.” 


198 


THE banker’s daughter. 


“ Never tell him the truth, Auntie Brown!” says the child, 
in surprise. 

“ Certainly you do not, Natalie. You tell him your mamma 
is well, when she is very sick. ” 

“ Do you really think mamma is sick. Auntie Brown?” 
says the child, with a look of concern. 

“ Your mamma is very sick, Natalie. She is dying to see 
your papa — ” 

” Then why don’t she go and see him, and take me with 
her?” cries the child. 

“ Your mamma can not go to him, Natalie; but you must 
write and tell him the truth, and he will come to her and to 
you.” 

“ Oh, 1 should lilfe to do it so much; but do you think 
mamma will let me?” 

“ My dear Natalie, you must do this for your mamma’s 
sake, and say not a word about it to her or to anybody else. 
Do you understand me, Natalie? Your mamma may die if 
you will not do this.” 

‘‘ I’ll do it. Auntie Brown,” says the child, a look of awe in 
her blue eyes that are so like her mother’s at this moment. 
“ Will you tell me what to say in my letter?” 

“ Yes, darling. Would you like to write it now?” says 
Florence, her heart beating exultingly. 

” Oh, yes! while you are here. My pen and ink and paper 
are all here.” 

“ Get them,” says Florence; “ and 1 can take the letter 
with me to post. ” 

Very nimbly Natalie goes about getting her writing ma- 
terials, and in a few minutes she is ready, pen in hand, for 
Auntie Brown to tell her what to write. 

“ Dear papa,” begins Florence, “ I do hope you will come 
home at once;” and Florence takes the little hand, and hur- 
ries the pen over the paper. Mamma says that she can not 
longer live without you, that her heart will break if you do 
not come.” 

“ There, that will do nicely,” says Florence, triumphantly, 
as the child signs her name. “You are an angel, Natalie,” 
she adds, giving the child a kiss. “ Now tell me papa’s ad- 
dress, and I will write it for you.” 

The child tells the address, and Florence superscribes the 
envelope, fastens it, and, laying it on the table, she takes 
Natalie over to the sofa, and begins to talk to her once more. 
“ Natalie, this letter is going to do your mamma a great deal 


THE BAHKER^S DAUGHTER. 199 

of good, blit remember you must not say a word about it to 
her. 

“ Oh, I won^t! Do you really think papa will come home. 
Auntie Brown?’^ 

“ Yes, my dear; I think he will come at once.^^ 

“ Oh, won’t that be nice!”- cries Natalie, clapping her 
hands in delight. 

Florence talks a few minutes longer to the child, then ring- 
ing the bell for Lisette, takes her departure. In the lower 
hall she meets a snowy-haired old gentleman. It is Mr. Bab- 
bage, Lawrence Westbrook’s partner. Seven years have made 
the unprepossessing old gentleman none the less crusty. Not 
pleasant or sociable, apparently, with any one, he is less so to 
Florence St. Vincent Brown, who is a special object of his 
aversion on account of her worldliness. Florence knows that 
she is not, to put it mildly, %pet with the old gentleman, and 
she takes a delight in annoying him and showing him her 
character in its worst light. 

“ How do you you do, Mr. Babbage?” -says Flore nee, in a 
pathetic voice, dropping her eyes before the old gentleman, 
and trying her best to put on a sorrowful look. 

“ How do you do, Mrs. Brown?” says the old gentleman, 
crisply. “ I thought that mourning show outside was yours;” 
and he attempts to pass. .. 

But Florence plants herself directly in his path, determined 
that he shall hear what she has to say. 

“ Well, one must show one’s grief in some way, Mr. Bab- 
bage; besides, the time that Fashion decrees for profound 
mourning has not yet e:^pired. I was just telling Lilian,” 
with a long-drawn sigh that exasperates the old gentleman, 
“ that it is one year and eleven months to-day since my awful 
bereavement. ” 

“ Awful bereavement! What a modern humbug!” and the 
old gentleman forces his way past her. 

Florence’s laugh rings out in the old familiar way, and she 
says, in a cheery voice: . 

“ revoir, Mr. Babbage;” but the old gentleman bangs 
the door of the reception-room, that he entered to escape the 
widow, in a manner that fills Florence with glee, for she 
knows that she has succeeded in annoying him. 

“ It’s about time he stopped cutting me,” says Florence, as 
she opens the hall door; “ for he always comes out number 
two.” 

Before Lisette returned to Natalie, the child discovered that 


^00 THE BAHKEK^S DAUGHTER. 

Florence had forgotten the letter slie was so anxious to take 
with her to post. 

“ Oh, what shall I do? — Auntie Brown forgot the letter!” 
says Natalie to herself, in dismay. ” Shall I hide it until she 
comes again? No; 1^11 run after her. She may not be gone 
yet;” and cunningly concealing the letter in the folds of her 
dress, as she dreaded any one discovering it, she leaves the 
nursery and runs down-stairs. 

When Natalie reaches the lower hall, Mr. Babbage is com- 
ing out of the reception-room, wherein he took refuge from 
Mrs. Brown. 

“ Oh, Uncle Babbage, did you see Auntie Brown?” cries 
Natalie, out of breath. 

“She has just gone out,” says Mr. Babbage, patting the 
child on the head. 

“Oh, isn^t that too bad!” says the child, with a look of 
keen disappointment that does not escape the old gentleman^s 
eye. 

“ What’s the matter, Natalie — is it anything I can do for 
you?” 

The child regards him for some moments, and concludes to 
trust him. 

“ Uncle Babbage,” she says, cautiously drawing the letter 
out from the folds of her dress, “ Auntie 'Brown was going to 
post this letter for me, but she forgot it.” 

“ Of course she did. Who would expect that feather-brain 
to remember anything?” he says to himself. 

“ Will you put a post-office picture on it for me, and put it 
in the post-office. Uncle Babbage?” 

“ Certainly I will, my dear child;” and Mr. Babbage takes 
the letter from the child’s hand, and starts as he sees the 
direction upon it. 


CHAPTER XXNVI. 

DISSOLVING PARTNERSHIP. 

A MONTH from the day Mr. Babbage posted Natalie’s letter 
to her father, he is sitting in the luxuriously furnished exten- 
sion room of Lawrence Westbrook’s house. A table divides 
him and his partner — his partner not a great while longer. 
The old firm of Babbage & Westbrook is about to dissolve, 
and the members, having accumulated an immense fortune, 
are about to retire forever from business. Babbage has already 
put his name to the paper, and now he passes it to his part- 
ner, saying: 


THE EAHKER’S daughter. 201 

“ There, Larry, put your name to that and the old firm is 
no more.’^ 

Mr. Babbage leans back in his chair, and Lawrence West- 
brook signs the paper. 

“ There it is, Babbage,^^ says the banker; “ and now give 
me your hand. Our business relations are at an end, but 
after thirty years we are still, thank Heaven, stanch friends.'^ 

The men shake hands across the table, and Babbage says, 
dryly: 

“Yes, we ought not to complain. AVe are retiring with 
five millions of dollars to divide between us, all splendidly in- 
vested in government bonds and A 1 real estate. I tell you, 
Larry, we are two copper-fastened, iron-bound business men.^^ 

“ Yes,’^ says the banker, with a sigh that he can not sup- 
press, “ we are very successful business men. 

Perhaps Mr. Babbage guessed the meaning of that sigh. It 
certainly disturbed him, for he rises and takes a couple of 
turns oil the floor before he says: 

“Before this business is concluded, I have another paper 
that I wish you to see;'’ and taking a folded paper from his 
pocket he hands it to Westbrook who has risen from his chair. 

“ A deed to Lilian AVestbrook Strebelow," says the banker, 
aloud, in surprise, as he scans the paper. “ This valuable 
Grand Street property you make over to Lilian, Babbage, it's 
worth half a million dollars." 

“ It is the odd half million, Larry. I won't miss it, and it 
will be some relief to my conscience. I know she doesn't 
want money, but she must take that from me all the same. 
You forget, Larry, that instead of dividing five millions to- 
day we might not be worth a cent but for Lilian." 

“No, I do not forget," says the banker, with a sorrowful 
shake of his head. 

Babbage does not heed the interruption, but continues: 

“ From the first, Larry, I never felt right about it, but 
when that girl came home two years ago, and I met her white, 
despairing face, I thought the money I was enjoying was 
nothing more than blood-money;" and the old gentleman 
wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. 

The banker turns away to conceal his face, and silence falls 
between them until Ba-bbage says, abruptly: 

“ IIow is she to-day, Larry 

The banker applies his handkerchief to his eyes before he 
faces his old friend. 

“ She is worse, if anything, Babbage; she has not strength 
to cross the room without assistance. Oh, this cursed money!" 


202 


THE EANKEK^S DAUGHTER. 


cries the banker, unable longer to control his feelings. “ I 
would part with every cent of it, if my doing so would restore 
Lilian to happiness — restore John Strebelow to his family. 
He was a good husband and father, and 1 never shall allow 
any one to think that he is to blame in this matter. If Lilian 
could only love her husband all would be well.^^ 

“ Larry, I think your daughter has learned to love her hus- 
band,^ ^ says Babbage, abruptly. 

“ Babbage cries the banker, in astonishment, “ what 
makes you think so?’^ 

“ Do you know that Natalie writes to her father 

“Yes; that is, Fanny has told me that John Strebelow 
writes to Natalie sometimes.'’^ 

“ Larry, 1 believe your daughter is wooing back her hus- 
band, and the little thing is writing the love letters. About 
a month ago Natalie gave me one of these letters to put a 
post-office picture on it, and the mysterious manner in which 
she did it was really, amusing. Take my word for it, Larry, 
your daughter is in love with her husband to-day. 

“ Oh, Babbage, if I was sure that you were right and 
the banker sinks into a chair and bows his head upon the 
table. 

Babbage regards his late partner in silence for some mo- 
ments, then walking over and clapping him on the shoulder, 
he says: 

“ If you were sure — well, what then?’^ 

The banker is on his feet in an instant. 

“ If 1 were sure that she loved her husband, 1 would tell 
her all — all, and I believe she would send for him at once,'^ 
says the banker, walking the floor, his voice choking with 
emotion. 

“If you can tell anything to your daughter, Larry, that 
will make her send for her husband, I would advise you to do 
it at once,'^ says Mr. Babbage, dryly. 

“ Unless she loves her husband it will be no use to tell her 
and expose myself. If she had loved her husband the night 
they parted, she would never have come to this country with- 
out him, for I would have told her all then; but she did not, 
she still loved Routledge, and my confession would have done 
no good,^^ says Westbrook, in an excited manner. 

“ Your confession, Larry!"’ says Babbage, sharply, eying 
his friend; “ that sounds very like as if there had been foul 
play somewhere. Depend upon it, Larry, if there is anything 
to confess, it is better out; something that is wrong will be 
righted, and you will surely have done some good.” 


THE banker's daughter. 203 

“ Something that is wrong," says the banker, in a sorrow- 
ful voice; but it has been wrong so long, Babbage." 

“Then, d — n it, man, let it be wrong no longer!" says 
the older man, losing his temper. “ I believe your daughter 
loves John Strebelow, and if you can say anything that will 
help to unite the divided pair it is cowardly of you to keep it 
to yourself. There, you have my opinion about it." 

“ And you are right, Babbage; I am a coward. You re- 
member the day, more than seven years ago, that you came 
into this very room and told me that we were on the verge of 
ruin?" 

“ It isn't likely that 1 shall ever forget it," says Babbage, 
slowly. 

“ You told me not to sell my daughter, Babbage. If I had 
only taken your advice!" 

“ We would not be dividing five millions to-day, Larry." 

“ True, we would not, but my mind would be at rest. Her 
pitiful face would not be haunting me at every turn. Bab- 
bage, I promised you, on that day I speak of, that I would 
not coerce Lilian — " 

“ You did, Larry; and don't tell me that 3 ^ou did not keep 
your promise," says the old gentleman, quickly; but there is 
a suspicious look in his keen eyes as he looks at Westbrook. 

“ I kept my word to you, Babbage. I used no force — " 

“ Thank Heaven for that!" says Babbage, with a feeling of 
relief. “ I would never touch a cent of my share of the fruits 
of such work, if I thought you had." 

“ I used no force, but, Babbage, I did wol’se. I deceived 
my daughter, or she never would have married John Strebe- 
low. I deceived John Strebelow, or he never would have mar- 
ried my daughter — and both remain deceived to this day." 

The banker speaks in a quick, hurried voice, as if his cour- 
age would fail him. As the last word drops from his lips, he 
shrinks from beneath the piercing gaze of the older man's 
eyes, and he bows his head in shame. Not a word is spoken 
for several moments; then Babbage says, in a reproachful 
voice: 

“ And how could you expect this marriage to turn out other- 
wise than it has? Ah, Larry, the mills of the gods grind slow 
but exceedingly fine. While your daughter and her husband, 
seemingly, lived happily together, and you were rapidly grow- 
ing rich, how you chuckled in secret over the success of your 
infamous plot. Why should you feel any remorse? There 
was no retribution in store for you; instead, every day saw 
you more prosperous. To-day you live upon the fat of the 


204 : 


THE banker’s daughter. 


land, yon are rolling in wealth, the world envies the highly 
successful business man- — the world, that little knows what a 
hell his mind is to him. Ah, Larry, whether the world is the 
wiser of it or not, a man’s crimes always find him out. For 
your two and a half millions, Larry, I would scarcely own the 
skeleton that you have in your household. 1 would — ” 

“ For Heaven’s sake, Babbage, stop, or you will drive me 
mad!” cries the banker, in an agonizing voice, as he clasps 
his hands to his temples. 

“ Those are the very words you said to me seven years ago, 
Larry, and not half an hour ago you said, if you had only 
taken my advice that day — ” 

“ I wish to God I had, Babbage!” groans the banker. 

“ Larry, will you take it to-day?” 

The banker hesitates; then says, in a quick, nervous voice: 

“Yes, Babbage, I will.” 

“ 1 do not ask you, Larry, to tell me how you deceived your 
daughter and John Strebelow — ” 

“ I made John Strebelow believe that Lilian loved him — ” 
interrupts the banker; but Babbage interrupts him in turn, 
saying: 

“ I don’t want to hear anything about it, Larry. If you 
are willing to make a confession to-day, my advice is: go to 
your daughter; tell her how you deceived her. She will sure- 
ly insist on John Strebelow being undeceived, and it will be 
the means of uniting the husband and wife.” 

“ If Lilian loves her husband, it will be the means of unit- 
ing them, I am eertain of, that; but whether it does or not, 
Babbage, I will take your advice. It has made me an old 
man to carry this secret; 1 will carry it no longer.” 

“ That is right, Larry; do all you can to undo the wrong 
5^011 have done,” says Babbage, taking the banker’s hand. 
“ Go at once to Lilian, and I shall call to-morrow to hear the 
result. ” 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE CONFESSION. 

In a month Lilian has sunk rapidly. It costs her a great 
effort now to walk across the floor, aud very o-ften she can not 
do it without assistance. At her request, her easy-chair was 
drawn to the window, and she is sitting in it now, vacantly 
looking out at the passers-by, who are enjoying a delightful 
afternoon on the avenue. 

She is alone in her boudoir. Aunt Fanny having taken 


THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER. ^05 

'\ 

^Natalie for a drive, and her father is engaged with Mr. Bab- 
h|ige. Blit her father came very seldom to see her since she 
became too weak to go about the house. 8 he is thinking of 
him now, wondering, with a grieved feeling, why he does not 
come oftener to see her. For days the desire has been 
growing upon her to speak to her father about her husband, 
and to-day it is stronger than ever. 

“ If I were only sure that death was near,^^ she says to her- 
self, “ 1 would send for my father, and tell him that 1 want 
to see my husband before I die. But 1 may not die. I feel 
myself getting weaker every day; I know the doctor believes I 
can not last through the winter; 5 'et I know that if 1 saw my 
husband 1 would live. After two years to send for him, to 
tell him that 1 love him, and then to live! Oh, no, I can not 
send for him — 1 can not — 

A knock on the door interrupts Lilianas thoughts. 

“ How is my daughter to-day?’^ says the banker, wno en- 
ters, in obedience to Lilianas faint summons. 

He walks over to Lilianas chair. The sunlight is falling 
upon her, making her spiritvelle beauty more transparent. 
The banker^s heart seems to rise to his throat and choke him 
as he takes her hand in his. 

“ About the same,” she says, in answer to his question; but 
her eyes do not turn to meet his. 

“ Has the doctor been here to-day?” 

“ Not yet. Father, I was thinking of you just before you 
came in. 

“ Thinking of me, Lilian?” 

“ Yes; thinking how very seldom you came to see me.” 

The banker clears his throat as he says: 

“ 1 have been very busy, Jjilian. Not an hour ago I signed 
the paper that dissolved the firm of Babbage & Westbrook;” 
and the banker is glad that his daughter’s eyes are not upon 
him. 

“ So busy that you could not spare me a few moments every 
day, father?^' 

Her blue eyes turn upon him now, and her voice is full of 
reproach. Her father drops her hand and turns away. For 
some moments he stands with- his face turned from her, try- 
ing to control his emotion, then wheeling suddenly around, he 
says: 

“ To be candid with you, Lilian, it was not because I was 
so busy that 1 stayed away. I could not bear to conie here, to 
see you suffering. Your face reproaches me every time I look 
upon it.” 


^06 


THE banker’s daughter. 


She holds out her hand to him. 

“ Father, do not blame yourself for my sujffering. If I 
had been a wiser, a better woman, I might have spared myself 
all this.’’ 

“ True, you were but a girl of seventeen — a mere child 
when you were married, or you would know better than to sell 
yourself to save me. ” 

“I did not mean that, father. What 1 did then I would 
do again. Oh, if I had loved John Strebelow the day I mar- 
ried him, what a happy lot mine would have been; but my 
life has all gone wrong, and regrets now are in vain.” 

The banker regards her for some moments, then says: 

“ My daughter, it has always puzzled me to know how you 
could have lived with such a man as John Strebelow for five 
years and not learn to love him. ” 

“ Father, no woman could live under the same roof with 
such a man as John Strebelow for five years, and not learn to 
love him in a much shorter time than five years.” 

The banker starts, and he says, eagerly: 

“You say no woman could do it, Lilian, and yet you your- 
self have done it. ” 

“ 1 never said that I did not learn to love my husband,” 
sarys Lilian; and she presses her hand over her heart to still 
its fluttering, as the secret she has carried so long is about to 
pass her lips. “ Since the hour my Natalie was born my 
heart has been John Strebelow’s.” 

“ Lilian!” and the banker stares at her aghast. 

“ Why are you so awfully surprised, father?” says Lilian, 
who seems to have grown stronger within the last minute. 

“ Why am 1 so surprised, Lilian? You tell me that you 
have loved your husband since Natalie was born, then how 
came you to tell John Strebelow, on the night that you two 
parted, that you still loved Harold Eoutledge? That night, 
Lilian, h your husband knew that your heart belonged to 
him, I think I can safely say that he would not be in Rome 
to-day and you dying here.” 

“ 1 scarce knew what I said to John Strebelow that night, 
For four long years I waited to have him ask me for my love. 
Was it thoughtful, was it kind of him to wait until I left the 
bleeding, inanimate form of the man I once loved lying upon 
the' cold ground, to ask me if 1 still loved ilarold Routledge? 
What could I answer at that moment, but that I did not 
know? If he had put the question to me before he went to 
the American minister’s that night, my answer would have 
been a very different one. I would have told him the truth. 


THE BANKEU^S DAUGHTER. 207 

\that from the hour my child was born my heart was his;^’ and 
Lilian leans back in her chair, faint from exhaustion. 

\ While his daughter is speaking, a look of horror steals 
oVer the banker’s face. ‘Here is an opportunity to launch into 
tbe subject that brought him here; but for some time he 
stands silent. He scarcely knows how to begin, and he can 
not control his voice to speak. 

“ Lilian,” he says, in a hoarse whisper, as he steps to the 
back of her chair, not daring at this moment to look at her 
face, “ I will tell you why in all those years John Strebelow 
did not ask you for your love — ” 

“ Father,” she says, softly, “ I think I know why. I be- 
lieve John Strebelow loved me when he married me — ” 

“ He did indeed — I would be willing to swear that no man 
ever loved a woman better.” 

“ But it was not as strong a love as you may think, father,” 
she continues, not heeding his interruption, “ though I can 
never complain of coldness on his part; but he never tried to 
woo me after marriage. I belonged to him, and that seemed 
to satisfy him. He never complained of my coldness, but 
from a sense of duty, 1 suppose, for John Strebelow was a 
noble man, he continued his loving kindness, his endearing 
epithets to the last. Easy as the part seemed to fit him, it 
must have been very irksome and galling for him to play, or 
he never would have left his child and me the very moment 
ho found a pretext to do so.” 

“ My child,” says the banker, in a trembling voice, “ no 
wonder you are dying, if these have been your thoughts for 
two years or longer. Lilian, you are wrong — wrong. John 
Strebelow left you that night because he believed that you had 
shamefully deceived him. He loved you with a love that is 
not every day bestowed upon women, and he thought you 

‘ — The one thing undefiled 
By the air we breathe in a world of sin; 

The truest, the tenderest, purest child 
A man ever trusted in. ’ 

Lilian, John Strebelow never asked you for your love, because 
he thought he possessed it the hour he asked you to be his 
wife. He never knew you loved another until the night Har- 
old Routledge met his death. ” 

Lilian smiles faintly at what she thinks is a trick of her fa- 
ther. There is no sarcasm, no indignation in her voice, as she 
says, with a sad shake of her head: 

^“Father, when you offer this excuse for John Strebelow, 


208 


THE BANKEIi^S BAUGHTER. 


you forget that you yourself told him if he wanted me for his 
wife that he must be satisfied to take my hand without my 
heart/’ 

The banker clasps his hands in despair, as he cries, witk a 
burst of emotion that startles Lilian: 

“ Would to God, Lilian, it were a slij) of memory, and I 
was not the scoundrel that I am!’^ 

There is a startled look in Lilian’s eyes. She sits erect in 
her chair. She is no longer weak. 

“ Father,” she says, in a hushed voice, “ what do you 
mean? Don’t stand behind me where 1 can’t see you. Come 
here;” and putting up her hand, she draws him around to the 
front of her chair. 

“ Lilian, the night you promised to marry John Strebelow 
to save me, you said: ‘ Father, I can not talk to John Strebe- 
low about this, but promise me that you will explain to him 
why I am satisfied to marry him, that respect, and not love, 
is all 1 can offer him with my hand!’ I gave you my sacred 
promise, Lilian, that I would repeat your words to John 
Strebelow — ” 

“ And you didn’t, father?” 

Lilian is on her feet, and the first trace of color that has 
been on her cheek for weeks is there now. 

“ Lilian, 1 did not keep my promise. Instead, I told John 
Strebelow that you already loved him with all your heart.” 

“ Oh, father, father!” and Lilian sinks back in her chair. 

The banker falls on his knees before her. 

“ My daughter, forgive me, forgive me!” and burying his 
face in his hands, he sobs like a child. 

“ Not now— wait— wait!” Lilian gasps, as she lies back in 
the chair, trying to recover her breath. “ Oh, father— fa- 
ther, v/hat have you done?” 

“ My child, for God’s sake, do not upbraid me! I have 
suffered so much since we came home.” 

“ What must John Strebelow have suffered, father,” she 
says, as she presses her hand over her heart, “loving me, 
trusting me as he did, and thinking that I have deceived him 
so basely. Now, 1 can see it all. Oh, God! 'how blind 1 
have been, how 1 have mistrusted one of the noblest men on 
earth! What 1 have suffered myself is nothing— nothing to 
what I have made him suffer. Oh, father, father! why didn’t 
you tell me this when you learned that J ohn Strebelow left 
me?” 

“ Because I believed, Lilian, that you did not love your 
husband. If you had told me then what you have to-day, I 


THE banker’s daughter. 209 

would have sent for John Strebelow and confessed all to him. 
Lilian, it is not too late. I shall do it now — ” 

“ No, father,” she says, quickly. “1 will call my hus- 
band back, my noble husband, of whom I am so unworthy. 
His last words to me were: ‘ When your heart calls me, Lili- 
an, I shall return to you. ’ ” 

“ He said the same to me: ‘ When your daughter’s heart 
calls to me I will return to her, not before. ’ Lilian, his love 
for you was so great that, though he believed you deceived 
him, he forgave you. He will return to you — you will live 
and be happy, Lilian,” says the banker, in a broken voice. 
“ 1 am on my knees to you; can you not find it in your heart 
to forgive me? Think of my position when I broke ray prom- 
ise to you. 1 knew well, if 1 told John Strebelow the truth, 
that he .would not marry you,- that he would never accept your 
hand without your heart, and there was no other hope. Ruin 
— disgrace — was all that was left for me and for you.” 

What a foolish girl she had been! She ought to have 
known that John Strebelow would never have received her if 
he had known the truth; only her father deceived him, she 
would not be his wife to-day. Not be John Strebelow’s wife! 
For a mom'ent her flesh creeps with a feeling of horror; then 
throwing her arms about her father’s neck, she cries: 

“ Father, do not kneel to me! 1 forgive you with all my 
heart!” 

“ Oh, Lilian, this is more than 1 expected!” 

And rising from his knees, the banker clasps his daughter 
in his arms and weeps over her. 

“ Don’t cry — don’t cry, father. I want to talk to you,” 
says Lilian, excitedly. “John Strebelow would not have 
married me if you had not deceived him.” 

“Indeed he would not, Lilian,” says the banker, wiping 
his eyes. 

“ Then, father, I am not sorry. I would suffer over again 
what I have suffered rather than not be his wife, and J know 
that he will forgive you.” 

“Heaven grant it!” says the banker, with a lighter heart 
than he has carried for ten years. 

“ Oh, how plain everything is to me now! How indignant 
I was when he invited Routledge to call on me; and the night 
we parted, when 1 said I was ready to hear whatever he had to 
say to me, he answered: ‘ Lilian, I thought it was you who 
had something to say to me.’ Of course he didn’t understand 
my conduct, and ho wanted an explanation. If I only under- 


210 


THE banker’s daughter. 


stood it then, what misery might be spared us botli! Father, 
could any. one blame him for leaving me?” 

“ No, my darling, he was not to blame,” says the banker, 
soothingly, for he is becoming alarmed at Lilian’s wild man- 
ner. 

“It might have been all explained that night, but I would 
not allow him to talk on the subject. 1 said 1 never could 
bear to talk about it. That sounded as if I had been keeping 
a secret from him, didn’t it, father?” 

“ Well, it did sound like it, Lilian; but 1 wouldn’t talk any 
more about it now, dearest. You know how weak 3 'ou are, 
and your cheeks are already ablaze. 1 fear this scene has been 
too much for you, Lilian. You must keep yourself quiet for 
awhile. It won’t do, darling, for you to get sick now.” 

“Oh! father, you don’t know how strong 1 have grown 
since you came into this room. You have made me so happy, 
father. But I’ll do as you say; I will be quiet. You can 
leave me, for I want to think — to think what 1 shall say to 
John.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

AN ANSWER TO NATALIE’S LETTER. 

“ Oh, mamma, 1 do wish you were out with us!” cries Nat- 
alie, bounding into the boudoir before Aunt Fanny, about 
half an hour after the banker left Lilian. 

“ Then you enjoyed your drive, darling?” says Lilian, put- 
ting her arm around the child and kissing her. 

“ Oh, so much!” cries Natalie, joyously. “ Didn’t we have 
a splendid time. Aunt Fanny?” appealing to that lady the 
moment she appears in the door-way. 

“ I see it has made my little girl’s cheeks rosy,” says Lil- 
ian. 

“Indeed, your own cheeks are rosy, mamma,” says the 
child, who has fixed her eyes on her mother’s face. “ Aunt 
Fanny, come here; mamma doesn’t look a bit sick, does she?” 

Lilian laughs as Fanny looks at her in surprise. 

“ Natalie is right; you are indeed looking well this after- 
noon, Lilian — even your voice seems stronger.” 

“ I feel better, Aunt Fanny. I mean to get well— I must 
get strong again.” 

“ Thank Heaven, my darling!” says Aunt Fanny, fer- 
vently. “You ought to have been with us this afternoon. It 
is delightful weather for the first of November.” 


THE banker’s daughter. 211 

Do you really think it would benefit me to take a short 
drive, aunt?” 

“ It would do 3 'ou a world of good.” 

“ Then if you will help me 1 will go — I will do anything, 
Aunt Fanny, to gain strength — I must get well!” 

Aunt Fanny’s heart beat with joy, but she asks no questions 
as she assists Lisette to get Lilian ready for the drive. It is 
the first time since Lilian’s return home that her aunt has 
seen her display any spirit of eagerness, and she considers it a 
good omen. Little Natalie, who is wise beyond her years from 
constant association with her elders, sees the change in her 
mother as plainly as Aunt Fanny does, and when sbe is told 
that she can accompany her mamma, she dances about with 
delight. 

When Lilian returns, after a half hour in the fresh, sweet 
air of Central Park, she feels like another woman. She is 
eager, anxious to write to her husband this afternoon; but she 
conquers her eagerness. The letter will go none the sooner 
for her writing it to-day. She will be so much better to-mor- 
row morning. She will wait until then. 

“ Lisette,” says Lilian, when it is near dinner-time, “ I will 
change my dress; I am going down to dinner.” 

“ Indeed, my dear mistress, I am glad to see you looking so 
well,” says the girl, with much feeling, when she has Lilian 
dressed. 

“ Thank you, Lisette; I know you are. Now, if you will 
give me your arm, I will go to the dining-room and surprise 
them.” 

The banker and his sister are already in the dining-room 
when Lilian reaches the door, and both rush forward to meet 
her with a cry of surprise. 

“My darling child, thank Heaven I see you here again!” 
and tears spring in the banker’s eyes as he leads Lilian to her 
accustomed place at the table. “ Fanny has just been telling 
me about your drive.” 

“lam afraid Lilian is exerting herself too much to-day,” 
says Mrs. Holcombe. 

“ Oh, no; 1 have had a nice rest since we came home, and 
Lisette helped me dewn-stairs. I thought I would surprise 
you.” 

“ And indeed you have,” answered the banker, “ and I am 
sure you will surprise Doctor Hinton when he comes to-mor- 
rpw. Your case has always been a puzzle to him. I think he 
will consider it so more than ever to-morrow. ” 


212 THE banker's daughter. 

‘‘ Indeed I will surprise the doctor. After a night’s rest I 
shall be able to come down-stairs without assistance.” 

Next morning Lilian has a happy thought. She is glad she 
did not write to her husband yesterday. Then she would have 
written to him herself; to-day she will not write the letter. 
Natalie has been the link between them. Her husband has 
corresponded with his child, hoping that some day he would 
hear from his wife through her, and Lilian’s happy thought is 
that Natalie shall write her letter. 

Lilian’s prediction of yesterday proves true. She is able to 
go down-stairs this morning without assistance, to the intense 
delight of her father and aunt. 

“ Natalie,” she says, when she has finished a very light 
breakfast, “ I want you this morning.” 

“ Are we going out?” cries Natalie, rising from the table. 

“We may by and by, dear, but not now; come ” — and Lil- 
ian slowly leads the way to the extension room. 

“ Natalie, you haven’t expressed a desire to write to your 
papa in some time.” 

“ Well, he hasn’t answered my last letter yet, mamma;” 
says Natalie, with a pout, “ and it is four weeks — I kept count 
of every week since I wrote it.” 

“ Never mind about that, Natalie. I want you to write to 
papa this morning.” 

“ Mamma,” says the child, fixing her earnest blue eyes on 
her mother’s face, “ it is the very first time you ever said you 
wanted me to write to j)apa.” 

Lilian pats her on the head with a trembling hand, but 
makes no reply. 

“ You can write it here, dear,” is all she says as she goes 
over to the table — the table the dissolution papers were signed 
upon yesterday, and that John Strebelow drew out his thirty- 
thousand-dollar check upon seven years ago, which he, un- 
knowingly, paid for the hand of Lilian Westbrook. 

Natalie seats herself at the table, but the chair not being 
high enough, she jumps up quickly and places a foot-stool upon 
it, which elevates her to a proper height. 

“ Now, mamma, I’m ready.” 

The writing paper is before Natalie, and Lilian, placing the 
pen, which she has dipped into the ink, in her hand, begins: 

“ Dear papa—” 

“ ‘ Dear papa,’ ” repeats Natalie; and as she writes the fa- 
miliar words she says: “ That’s eas}^” and Lilian begins 
again: 

“1 hope you will — 


THE BAHKEIi'S DAUGHTER. 


213 


“ ‘ 1/ repeats Natalie, as she writes, ‘ o-p-e,’ liop'e — ” 

“No, darling,^’ interrupts Lilian; “ /i-o-p-e, hope;'" and 
taking the pen from Natalie, she makes the correction. 

“ Oh, yes, ‘ 7i-o-p-e," hope,"" says Natalie, taking the pen 
again, “ ‘ you will." That"s all written."" 

“ Come back to America,"" continues Lilian. 

“ ‘ K-u-m," come — "" 

“ No, my darling, you spell better in French than you do 
in English. Let me take your hand;"’ and guiding the child "s 
pen, Lilian continues: “ Come back to America. Mamma’s 
heart is breaking for you. She says that she will die if you 
do not return to her — ” 

The tears are rolling down Lilian’s cheeks. She is far from 
being as strong as she thought she was. She can no longer 
guide Natalie’s hand; but turning away, she sinks into a chair, 
and burying her face in her han&erchief, sobs aloud: 

“ Yes, my husband, my heart is breaking for you! Come 
back to me — come back, or 1 shall die!” 

Natalie smiles as she hears her mother cry, and turning 
around, she rests her chin on the back of the chair, and as she 
looks at her mother, says in the coolest manner imaginable: 

“ That’s just what I said in my last letter.” 

Instantly Lilian’s handkerchief falls from her eyes. 

“ Natalie, what do you mean?” 

“Just what I say, mamma. My last letter to papa was 
nearly every word the same as this one. ” 

“My dear child, you are mistaken; 1 saw your last let- 
ter— ” 

' “No, you didn’t either,” says the child, with a bright smile. 
“ Auntie Brown was the only one that saw it, except Uncle 
Babbage. He saw the outside.” 

Lilian’s heart beats rapidly as she steps to Natalie’s sides 
Her arms tremble as she embraces the child, and in her eye. 
is an eager light. 

“ Natalie, darling, what letter are you speaking of? I do 
not understand you. ” 

“ Auntie Brown made me write a letter to papa. She told 
me what to say, and it was just like what you told me this 
morning, so 1 don’t think there is any harm to tell it. Auntie 
Brown said she would take the letter with her to post, but she 
stayed talking so long after 1 had written it that I guess she 
forgot all about it; then I went down-stairs and gave it to 
Uncle Babbage to put a post-office picture on it for me. Was 
it any harm, mamma?” 

“ No, my darling child; it will save so much time— so much 


21i THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER. 

time. Heaven bless Florence, she was determined to make 
me happy/" says Lilian, pressing Natalie close to her. ‘ ‘ W hen 
did you send your letter, Natalie?"" she asks, in a trembling 
tone. 

“ Last Sunday it was just four weeks. 1 think I ought to 
have an answer before this; don"t you, mamma?"" 

“ Natalie,"’ cries Lilian, in a joyful tone, “your papa may 
be coming home — may be on his way here now!"" 

“ Oh, wouldn’t that be nice, mamma!"" cries the child, 
clapping her hands. 

Lilian does not hear her child’s cry of delight. A voice has 
whispered to her: Your husband may not come. A man like 
John Strebelow will not so readily heed the call of the woman 
who has so cruelly deceived him. A cold chill runs over Lil- 
ian, and she sinks into a chair. She has been too sanguine; 
John Strebelow may not forgive her at this late day. 

“Oh, God, be pitiful!"" Lilian moans. “I have suffered 
so much — so much — "" 

“ A letter for Miss Natalie,” says a servant, opening the 
door. 

Lilian is on her feet as soon as Natalie, but the latter runs 
to the door, crying: 

“ Give it to me — give it to me! Mamma, see! Oh, what 
a dirty old letter!"" says the child, turning it over in her hand 
as her mother hurries to meet her. 

Lilian snatches the letter in her eagerness to know whom it 
is from. 

“ Natalie, it is your papa’s writing,” she says, breathlessl}^ 
as she tears open the envelope. “ It has been written on ship- 
board. Natalie — Natalie, your father is coming home! He 
may be here this very day!” and clasping Natalie in her arms, 
Lilian sobs for joy. 

“ Is that all he says, mamma?” says Natalie, with a disap- 
pointed air. 

“ That is all, my darling;” and Lilian looks at the lettel 
again. “ He says: ‘ Natalie, darling, I am coming home. 1 
may be with you as soon as you receive this letter;’ ” and Lil 
ian breaks out into another fit of weeping. 

“ Well, what are ygu crying for, mamma? Ain’t you 
glad?” 

“ My darling, I am so glad I must cry,” says Lilian, wip- 
ing her eyes. “ How weak I was to doubt him!” she says to 
herself. “ The night we j^arted he said to mo: ‘ When your 
heart calls me, I will return to you." and John Strebelow never 
broke his word. Natalie, say nothing about your letter to any 


THE BANKEK’S daughter. 


215 


one. We will let papa surprise them. Come, 1 will dress you 
to receive him.'’ ^ 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

BABBAGE AND THE WIDOW. 

A FEW minutes after Lilian left the extension room with 
Natalie, Jerrold ushers Mr. Babbage into it, saying: 

“ I'll tell Mr. Westbrook you are here, sir. v 

“ If he is busy tell him I am in no hurry,' says Mr. Bab- 
bage; and seating himself by the fire, he takes the daily paper 
from his pocket and is soon deep in the news. 

The old gentleman has been reading some ten minutes, 
when he is disturbed by a voice without, calling: 

“Mrs. Holcombe! Mrs. Holcombe!" ^ w 

As the name is repeated he recognizes the voice, and clutch- 
ing his paper as if he is determined that he will not be dis- 
turbed, he mutters, with a scowl: 

“The relict of the late Brown." 

“ Mrs. Holcombe," he hears again, and the next moment 

the widow bursts into the rooin, with: ^ 

“ A nice state of affairs! Lilian is too busy to see me, and 
I can't find any one from top to bottom of this house-— except 
my very dear friend Mr. Babbage," she says, changing her 
toL to a mockingly agreeable one as she sees the old gentle- 
man sitting at the fire. “ How do you do to-day my dear 
Mr. Babbage?" says the young widow, majestically sailing 

to^ar^^^l^ thank you, ma'am," replies Babbage, without rais- 
ing his eyes. t» 

‘‘ Delightful weather, Mr. Babbage. 

“ Yes " 

“The old bear!" thinks' hlorence; but she says,^ sweetly: 
“ Do you know how Lilian is to-night, Mr. Babbage.'’ 

< ^ N o " 

“ He'doesn’t want me to talk to him, but I’hdo it to annoy 
him,” thinks Florence. “ 1 wish 1 could see Mrs. Holcombe. 
I have to go down-town on business, then 1 have an ai)|)omt- 
ment with my dress-maker, and 1 m atraid 1 11 be late. 

“ 1 suppose you visit your dress-maker every day. Mis. 
Brown,” says the old gentleman, sarcastically, as he turns his 

^'''P'lorence smiles triumphantly 

cceded in turning the old gentleman s attention to heiself. 


210 


THE BANKEll'S DAUGHTER. 


“ Well, yes, Mr. Babbage,’^ she says, with a sigh, “ my 
dress-maker takes considerable of my time. 

“ I suppose so,^^ answers Babbage, dryly. 

“ But I can not blame her, Mr. Babbage; you know it re- 
quires a great deal of care and study on the part of a dress- 
maker to steer a young widow like myself safely through the 
various stages of her affliction.’^ 

Mr. Babbage drops his paper and turns his keen eyes quickly 
on Mrs. Brown, but that poor, grief-stricken little lady has her 
eyes bent modestly on the carpet. 

“ Mrs. Brown,” says Babbage, rising in disgust, “ 1 think 
you’ll survive your affliction.” 

“ I hope to, Mr. Babbage,” says Florence, her eyes danc- 
ing, “if I adhere to my physician’s prescription. He says 
there is only one way of curing a widow of her widowhood.” 

“ And what is that?” says I3abbage, dryly. 

“ Matrimony — another husband,” says Florence, demurely. 

“ Of course you intend taking the prescription,” says Bab- 
bage, sarcastically. 

“ Most certainly 1 do, Mr. Babbage;” and Florence’s airy 
laugh, that she can no longer restrain when she sees the ex- 
pression of Mr. Babbage’s face, rings through the room. 

“ Well, you have something substantial to offer your second 
husband, Mrs. Brown.” 

“ Thanks to my first — yes,” says Florence, coolly; and with 
a look that says: “ Have you anything more to say, Mr. Bab- 
bage?” 

Evidently Mr. Babbage has not — rather, all he has to say is: 
“ Heaven help the man that marries that woman;” and he 
says it to himself, as he walks up and down the room. 

“ Oh, dear! 1 do wish I could find Mrs. Holcombe,” says 
Florence, impatiently. “ I was going down-town on business, 
but I wished her advice first.” 

Mr. Babbage takes no notice of this remark, and Florence 
says: 

“ I suppose you have no idea where Mrs. Holcombe is, Mr. 
Babbage?” 

“I haven’t the slightest knowledge of the lady’s where- 
abouts, ma’am,” says Babbage, coldly. 

“ Well, perhaps you can advise me/^ says Florence, taking 
her card-case from her pocket. 

Mr. Babbage stops in his walk, and looks at her in surprise. 

“My business down-town was to order some cards,” she 
says, approaching him, with a card in her hand. 


THE BANKER DAUGHTER. 217 

“ Is that what you call business?’^ says the sarcastic old 
gentleman. 

“ Certainly, my dear Mr. Babbage; and what 1 wanted to 
know is how wide I ought to have the margin now?’"" pointing 
to the black border on her card. “ You know,'" with a sigh, 
“ poor dear Brown was dead two years yesterday. Mrs. Hol- 
combe is posted in such matters, you know. She was in my 
trying position once herself; that is why I came to her for ad- 
vice; but, perhaps, you can tell me something about it."" 

Mr. Babbage, with a peculiar grimace, looks from the up- 
turned face of the widow to the bit of pasteboard, and back to 
the face again, and says : 

“ Shall 1 give you my opinion, Mrs. Brown?"" 

“ If you please, Mr. Babbage."" 

“ For thirty years I did business for the late Brown, and he 
was always fond of a broad margin himself."" 

“ Then I"ll stick to a broad margin,"" says Florence, with 
an emphatic nod of her head.' “ Many thanks, Mr. Babbage. 
Good-day."" 

“ Good-day — and good riddance,"" concludes the old gentle- 
man, under his breath. 

But the widow is not gone yet. She takes a step back when 
she reaches the door. 

“ Mr. Babbage,"" she says — her face is gravity itself, and 
there is such a solemn tone in her voice that Mr. Babbage"s 
attention is enlisted at once — “ don"t you think that there is a 
heart-rending air of subdued grief reposing in — that bomba- 
zine cording?"" pointing at the trimming of her dress; and 
with a ringing laugh at poor Babbage"s crest-fallen counte- 
nance, Florence vanishes through the door before he can reply. 

“ That woman is the devil!"" says Babbage, as he takes his 
seat once more by the fire. 

A few minutes later the banker comes in. 

“ I am sorry for keeping you waiting, Babbage, but you said 
you were not in a hurry, so I thought I would finish some let- 
ters that I had to write."" 

“ Well, I am sorry now that I sent you that message."" 

“ Why, are you out of patience waiting?"" says the banker, 
smiling. 

“ No, but I"m out of patience and out of temper with that 
woman, and if you had been here you would have saved mo 
from her."" 

“ What woman?"" 

“ Mrs. Brown. I never spoke to a woman of less sense and 
of more assurance in my life."" 


218 


THE banker's daughter. 


“ Oh, Florence doesn't mean a hundredth part of what she 
says; like a great many people, she talks for talk's sake, and 
if she thinks it annoys you she talks more than ever; but she 
has a good heart with it all." 

“ I'd never have known it, Larry, if you hadn't told me. 
We'll not discuss the widow further. How is Lilian?" 

“ My dear Babbage," says the banker, laying his hand on 
the old man's shoulder, “ 1 took your advice,- and you would 
hardly know Lilian if you met her to-day. She has improved 
so wonderfully — " 

“ Mrs. Holcombe!" cries a voice outside. 

“ Mrs. Brown again!" cries Babbage, springing to his feet. 
“ For Heaven's sake, Larry, come away to the library; we 
can not talk if she comes in here again;" and Babbage walks 
hurriedly toward the door, the banker following him. 


CHAPTER XL. 

PHIPPS AND BROWN. 

Mr. Babbage narrowly escapes a second encounter with the 
widow, as she has just turned to go upstairs as he opens the 
door to go to the library. 

Florence does not remain long upstairs, however, and when 
she comes down there is an injured expression on her face. 

“ 1 think it is real mean— there I^' she says to herself, as she 
walks into the extension room, and bangs the door after her. 
“ I'd like to know what's the matter in this house. Well, 
I'm not going away until I find out, that's settled," says Flor- 
ence, with a determined nod of her head as she walks over to 
the fire. “ Why won't Lilian see me? Perhaps she is very 
sick. I know she is just dying for her husband. Well, what's 
the use of having a husband three thousand miles away?" and 
Florence indignantly throws the foot-stool that Natalie placed 
upon the chair to the floor. “ 111 sit here until somebody 
comes;" and she draws the chair to the grate, and makes her- 
self comfortable. 

Presently somebody comes — somebody that she least ex- 
pects. The door is thrown open, and somebody says, in a 
loud voice: 

“ Give my card to Mrs. Holcombe, and say that I am wait- 
ing here for her, and that I am in a hurry." 

Florence's heart gives a bound, and she is too surprised to 
stir. Was there ever a time, she thinks, when that man was 
not in a hurry? 


THE BAKKER'S daughter. 


219 


“ 1^11 just look over my book while I am waiting/^ says the 
gentleman, who rushed into the room, and so intent is he on 
minding his own business, that he does not see Florence, whose 
great black eyes are fixed upon him. 

“Let me see how much time I have.^^ He pulls out his 
watch. “Just two o'clock — must be at the bank before 
three." Looking over his note-book. “Ought to go over 
to Greenpoint this afternoon, but I guess I won't have time. 
I'll leave it until to-morrow — " 

“ Phipps!" 

Mr. Phipps turns with a start, and looks in the direction 
whence came the voice. 

“ Brown!" and Phipps stands staring at Florence. 

Brown sighs, and looks at the fire. 

That sigh sets Phipps's heart going pit-a-pat, and a brighter 
red tinges his cheeks as he crosses over to the fire. 

“ I am glad to see you, Mrs. Brown;" and he takes Flor- 
ence's hand as if he is afraid of her. 

“ Thank you, Mr. Phipps. I am glad to see you. I 
thought you never would come back from Europe;" and Flor- 
ence sighs again, 

Mr. Phipps drops her hand, and looks foolish. That sec- 
ond sigh has made him forget what he was to say next. 

“ When did you arrive, Mr. Phipps?" says Florence. 

“ This morning at nine o'clock, and I have been on the go 
ever since. I came over on the ‘ Ville de Paris.’ John 
Strebelow was a fellow-passenger." 

“ John Strebelow!" cries Florence, rising in surprise. 

“ Yes, John Strebelow. Let me see " — and Phipps walks 
away, looking at his note-book — “ I think 1 promised Green 
& Jones their goods this afternoon. " 

Florence raises her hands in despair, and sinking in her 
chair again, heaves another sigh. The sigh is effective. Phipps 
is at her side again instanter. 

“ Did — did you speak to me, Mrs. Brown?" 

Florence shakes her head, and says, sadly: 

“ It seems such a long time since you left New York, Mr. 
Phipps." 

“ It is just a month — " 

“Yes, I know, for you went away when Mr. Brown was just 
one year and eleven months, lacking one day, dead, and I was 
two years a widow yesterday," concludes Florence, heaving 
another sigh, and her eyes are bent on the fire. 

“Two years a widow yesterday!" cries Phipps. 

“Two years yesterday," with another sigh. 


220 


THE banker’s daughter. 


Phipps grows red in the face. He wants to say something, 
but it sticks in his throat. He coughs, walks away from Flor- 
ence, turns to walk back again, hesitates, pulls at his collar 
as if he is choking, and another sigh reaching his ears, he 
cries, in desperation: 

“ Mrs. Brown, will you be my wife?” 

Florence starts from her chair, and looks at him. He is 
busy turning over the leaves of his note-book. What can she 
say? What can she do? Faint? She stretches out her hand 
to him, but he takes no notice of her, his eyes ard on his book. 
She staggers forward, and is under his very nose, when he 
clasps her in his arms, and fans her vigorously with his note- 
book. 

“ I have concluded not to faint,” she says, suddenly open- 
ing her eyes and standing erect. “ Mr. Phipps, were you ever 
struck with a cannon-ball?” her eyes dancing now. 

“ l^o; but I was struck with a base-ball,” says Phipps, em- 
boldened by Florence’s fainting fit, “ Mrs. Brown, will you 
be my wife?” 

“ Phipps, give my imagination some chance.” 

“ 1 haven’t time, Mrs. Brown. I want an answer. 1 love 
yon; will you marry me?” 

Phipps mentioning his scarcity of time, frightens Florence. 
He may leave, or Mrs. Holcombe may come before this busi- 
ness is settled, and as it is a settled fact in her own mind that 
she loves Phipps, she says: 

“ Well, my doctor prescribes a second .husband. You are 
not handsome, Phipps, but I suppose I may as well take the 
dose in one form as another.” 

“ And, my dear Florence,” says matter-of-fact Phipps, 
who has completely recovered his composure, “ I must impress 
upon your mind now that 1 am no sugar-coated pill. Now, 
then, my dear, will you marry me— yes or no?” 

“ I’ll take the dose with my eyes shut,” says Florence, shut- 
ting her eyes, and giving him’ her hand. • “ Yes,” and Phipps 
taking advantage of the closed eyes, gives her a hearty kiss, 
as he cries: 

“ It’s a bargain; I’ll book it.” 

Florence laughs merrily as Phipps opens his book and turns 
to a blank leaf. 

“ November second,” he says, writing the date. “ Have 
you a middle name, Mrs. Brown?” 

“ Yes; Florence St Vincent Brown,” laughs the widow. 

“ And when do I get my property?” 


THE banker’s daughter. 


221 


Florence hesitates, smiles, and blushes, and Phipps, receiv- 
ing no answer, says: 

“ Shall I say thirty days after date?” 

‘ Yes, that will do,” says Florence, laughing. 

“ The second of December,” says Phipps. 

“ The second of December,” says Florence, “ 1 shall change 
my name— oh, horror! I thought Brown was bad enough, 
but Phipps!*' and Florence groans. 

“ Oh, youTl get used to it, my dear.” 

“ 1 hope I won’t forget it before the wedding-day,” says 
Florence, recovering from her fit of humor and laughing 
gayly. 

“ Here is my card, George Washington Phipps. If there is 
any danger of you forgetting it, just think of the Father of his 
-Country Phipps,” laughs Phipps. 

There is a sound of footsteps in the hall without, and h lor- 

ence cries: . 

“ Some one is coming; I’ll wait for you in the parlor. 

Phipps clasps her in his arms, and kisses her once more; 
and while Florence is struggling to free herself, her face 
suffused with blushes, he says: 

“ Eemember, dearest, the fifth of December.’ 

“ The fifth of December!” says Florence, in surprise. “ I 
thought you put the second down for the date.” 

' “ So I did,” laughs Phipps; “ but 1 must have three days’ 


grace, you know.” 

“ My dear Mrs. Holcombe,” cries Florence, her face very 
rosy as she meets that lady in the door- way, “ I have been 
looking for you through the house for the last half hour.” 

“ I \vas out, my dear; 1 have only been at home about ten 

minutes.” _ ’ , . . , 

“ Well, I will see you later,” says Florence, slipping past 


‘‘ Mrs. Holcombe, how do you do?” cries Phipps, rushing 

forward to meet the lady. tt i u 

“ Welcome back, Mr. Phipps,” says Mrs. Holcombe, giving 
him her hand. “ I hope you have had a pleasant trip?” 

“ Oh, very pleasant, very pleasant. ’Twas a business trip 
this time. You know 1 did Europe thoroughly when 1 was 
there before. There is nothing there worth seeing that I did 
not see. ” 

“ Indeed!” is all that Mrs. Holcombe can say. 

“ Yes, saw everything. By the bye, Mr. 8trebelow came 

over with me in the ‘ Ville de Paris.’ ” . tt i u 

“ Mr. Strebelow! John Strebelow!” cries Mrs. Holcombe. 


222 THE banker’s daughter. 

“ The same, madame. Your niece’s husband— and I am 
the bearer of a note from him to you;” and taking the note 
from his pocket, he places it in Auiit Fanny’s trembling hand. 

“ Mr. JStrebelow,” says Mrs. Holcombe, when she has read 
the note, “ wishes me to allow you to take Natalie to see 
him.” 

“ I believe so, Mrs. Holcombe. At first he thought of com- 
ing here, but he changed his mind, and wishes to have the child 
brought to the hotel to see him. ” 

“Yes, that is what he says here,” says Mrs. Holcombe, 
touching the note. 

“ He says he will not keep her long, and 1 have a carriage 
at the door to take her.” 

“ But, Mr. Phipps, I can not allow you to take Natalie. 
Will you be kind enough to say to Mr. Strebelow for me, that 
if he wishes to see his child, the proper place to see her is 
here, where her mother is. ” 

“ You are quite right, Mrs. Holcombe. I tried myself to 
coax him into coming here,” says Phipps. “ I shall go at 
once and tell him what you say.” 

“ Indeed I’ll be very grateful to you for doing so, Mr. 
Phipps.” 

“ It’s no trouble, no trouble, Mrs. Holcombe. ITl go at 
once.” 

“ If Lilian knew this it would break her heart. Her hus- 
band in New York, wanting to see his child, and would not 
come where she is to see it,” says Mrs. Holcombe to herself, 
with tears in her eyes. “ Will you return, Mr. Phipps, and 
let me know what he says?” 

“ Certainly, Mrs. Holcombe. He is waiting for me at the 
Windsor, If you will wait here, either he or I will return to 
you within a quarter of an hour.” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Phipps. I will wait.” 

“ Florence,” says Phipps, poking his head into the dark- 
ened parlor on his way out, “ are you here?” 

“ Yes,” answers Florence. 

“ Well, remain here until I come back. I sha’n’t be many 
minutes away;” and he is off before Florence can ask him a 
question. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

THE husband’s RETURN. 

Mrs. Holcombe watches the clock in no enviable state of 
mind after Phipps leaves her. Fifteen minutes pass, and she 


THE bakker’s daughter. 223 

can scarcely control her agitation. Will John Strebelow 
come? She hears the door-bell ring. 

“ Jerrold,’^ she says, running to the door as that function- 
ary passes, “ if it is a gentleman to see me, show him in here.’' 

Two gentlemen are admitted. One goes into the parlor 
without any ceremony; the other — at the sight of whom Jer- 
rold has nearly lost his breath — is ushered into the extension 
room. 

Aunt Fanny's heart seems to stop beating when the door 
opens and her eyes fall upon the man whom she has never 
ceased to esteem, admire, and pity from the depths of her ten- 
der heart. Her pity increases now, and tears spring to her 
eyes as she sees the work of sorrow in the lines on his hand- 
some face, in the whiteness of his hair. Her feelings overpower 
her. She holds out her hand as she steps forward to meet 
him, but the words of welcome die upon her lips. 

“ Mrs. Holcombe," is all he says, as he grasps her hand; 
but it is the old, familiar, musical voice, the same genial man- 
ner that drew all hearts to John Strebelow. 

“ Mr. Strebelow," says Aunt Fanny, in a choking voice, “ 1 
can not tell you how glad I am to see you." 

“ You needn't tell me. I know you are glad to see me, 
Mrs. Holcombe;" and John Strebelow's eyes, in which tears 
are gleaming, wander about the room. 

“And you are not displeased because I could not send 
Natalie to you?" 

“ No, Mrs. Holcombe, no. I was wrong in making such a 
request. It was my intention to come here — but — I wished — " 

He hesitates. Accustomed as he is to subdue his feelings, 
they conquer him now. Mrs. Holcombe respects the strong 
man's suffering, and wishing to leave him, she says: 

“ I will send Natalie to you at once," and hurries away. 

John Strebelow clasps his hands in agony, and he finishes 
the sentence he could not utter to Aunt Fanny. 

“ I wished to learn, beyond a doubt, from my child's lips 
that her mother's heart called me, before I trusted myself 
here. How familiar this room looks;" and his eyes wander 
around again, lingering upon every article of furniture; “ this 
room where she made me — simpleton that 1 was — so happy by 
bestowing upon me her hand while another possessed her 
heart." 

Painful memories crowd themselves upon him, and seating 
himself at the table, he leans his elbow upon it, and bows his 
head upon his hand. 

Lilian is sitting in her boudoir, delighting Natalie, who is 


234 


THE banker’s daughter. 


ill her loveliest dress, with a picture-book. As she explains 
the pictures, Lilian’s thoughts are elsewhere, and her heart is 
throbbing with expectation. She starts at every footste23, and 
when Aunt Fanny enters the room, she reads something in her 
face, and fairly liolds her breath to hear what she has to say. 

‘‘ Can Natalie come with me, Lilian? I won’t keep her 
very long — ” 

“Aunt Fanny, who wants Natalie?” and Lilian throws 
aside the book, and, rising, takes a step toward her aunt. 

, Mrs. Holcombe thought it best to keep all knowledge of 
John Strebelow’s visit from Lilian until she sees the result of 
his interview with Natalie. She knows now that Lilian sus- 
pects the truth, and for a moment she is confused, and her 
confusion makes Lilian sure that her husband has come. 

“ Aunt Fanny, do not deceive me; he has come. 1 expected 
him. Natalie — your — your papa is waiting for you;” and Lil- 
ian reels forward, and would have fallen, but Aunt Fanny 
clasps her in her arms. 

“ My papa!” is all Natalie says, bounding from her foot- 
stool, and her fainting mamma is nothing to her at this mo- 
ment. Without asking leave, out of the room and down the 
stairs she flies. 

“ Natalie!” cries Aunt Fanny. 

“Let her go,” cries Lilian, ^grasping Aunt Fanny’s arm 
with an intensity of feeling that frightens that good woman. 
“ Aunt Fanny, you mustn’t go near them. I — I shall go down 
in a few moments — when 1 can control myself.” 

John Strebelow raises his head from his hand as he thinks 
he hears a child’s footstep on the stairs. He listens; he is 
right — and he starts from his chair, his face aglow. 

“ Papa, papa!’ shouts a childish voice, and his little daugh- 
ter bursts into the room. 

“ Natalie!” and she is clasped to his heart. 

“ Oh, papa, I am so glad to see you; 1 thought you would 
never come back.” 

“ Natalie,” is all he can say, as he showers kisses upon her 
and smooths the bright golden hair that is wet with tears. 

“ 1 am so glad — so glad that you have come back again,” 
the child repeats, as she nestles her head against his bosom. 

“ I know my little darling is glad,” he finds voice to say. 
“ Stand up, Natalie, and let me look at you. How you have 
grown,” as he holds her at arm’s-length", and feasts his eyes 
upon her. “ What beautiful eyes, what beautiful hair;” and 
he takes the golden locks reverentially in his hand as he adds: 
“ So like your mother’s. ” 


the' banker's DAUGHTER. 225 

“ Your hair has grown so white, papa.'’ 

“ Then my little girl has not forgotten how papa used to 
look. She has a good memory for one so young." 

“But 1 looked at your picture every day, papa, in the 
locket mamma always wears on the tiny chain round her 
neck." 

John Strebelow's face brightens, but he makes no other 
comment on the child's answer. 

“ When did you receive my letter, Natalie?" he says, strok- 
ing her hair. 

“ This morning; and, oh, wasn't mamma and I surprised. 
And you came home because I asked you to come, didn't 
you, papa?" 

“ Yes, darling;" and John Strebelow takes the child on his 
knee again, as he says: “ Your mamma told you what to write 
in that letter?" 

“ No," says Natalie, who believes she has acted a very im- 
portant part in bringing her father home, and wishes to take 
all the credit for it; “1 wrote that letter myself!" with a dig- 
nified toss of her head. 

A tremor seizes John Strebelow, and he says, in a hoarse 
voice: 

“ Not that last letter, Natalie. What you said in that your 
mamma must have told you;" and his life seems to hang upon 
the child's answer. 

“ When I wrote it, mamma knew nothing at all about it. 
She didn’^t know one word that was in it," says the child, shak- 
ing her finger to give emphasis to her words. “I did it all 
myself — only Auntie Brown helped me — just a little bit, and 
Uncle Babbage put it in the post-office." 

A groan escapes John Strebelow 's lips, and pushing the 
child from his knee, he bows his head upon the table. 

“ Papa, papa, what is the matter?" and Natalie tries to 
climb upon his knee again. » 

“ Hush, Natalie — go away a moment." 

Natalie, her great blue eyes filled with awe, and wondering 
if she had done anything wrong, takes a seat at a little dis- 
tance from her father and watches him closely., 

“ What a delusion I have hugged crossing the Atlantic!" 
says John Strebelow to himself. “ The something that 
prompted me to send for Natalie told me that she might not 
have dictated that letter. If I had not. come here— 'twill be 
death for me to tear myself away without seeing her — and yet 
I dare not trust myself to see her. Take her to my heart, 
knowing that her heart is still a stranger to me? Never!" 


22G THE hankek’s paughter. 

and, rising, he wipes his eyes, and Natalie, whom he has for- 
gotten for the moment, runs to him. 

He takes her in his arms, and showers kisses upon her, cries 
over her, and says: - ' 

“ It would be better if I had not come. To have to give 
you up again — oh, my child! my child! this torture is more 
than I can bear!^^ 

“ Give me up again! You do not mean that you have to go 
away, papa?^’ and the little one begins to cry. 

He kisses her again, then sets her on the floor, saying: 

“ Yes, darling, I must go. Good-bye.^’ 

Natalie surmises that there is something wrong about the let- 
ter, and rushing to the table where the letter she has written 
this morning lay, she cries: 

“ Here is another letter, papa. Mamma knows about this 
one.’' But her father pays little attention to her words. 

“ Good-bye, Natalie,” he says. 

“ But you are not going before you see mamma?” 

“ 1 must, darling.” 

“ Then you must read my letter! Papa, you must not go 
until you read it.” 

“ I will read it by and by, and write you an answer, Nata- 
lie,” he says, taking the letter from the child’s hand and 
thrusting it into his overcoat pocket. 

The child scream: “ No! no!” and as she grasps him, and 
struggles to hold him back, a voice gasps: - 

“Jo-hn!” and Lilian staggers into the room, and stretches 
out her hands to him. 

She has been listening at the door, and has overheard all 
the conversation about the letter. She is laboring under in- 
tense excitement. She has no power of speech — she can 
scarcely drag herself into the room when she sees that he is 
going without reading her letter. 


CHAPTER XLIi. 

UNITED. 

Pen can not describe John Strebelow’s feelings as he looks 
upon his wife standing there with hands extended appealingly 
toward him. He can see at a glance how she has failed. He 
longs to gather her to his heart, to call her by endearing 
names, but a gulf is yawning between them. His suffering of 
the last two years is nothing compared to the agony that is 
pressed into this moment — this darkest moment before the 


THE banker's daughter. 


227 


dawn. He dare not trust himself to touch her outstretched 
hand. He swallows the great lump that has risen to his 
throat, and it is not until Natalie breaks the silence by crying: 
“ Papa, won't you speak to mamma?" that he can say: 

“lam glad to see you, Lilian. Believe me, I am more than 
glad to see you — ’' 

“ John/^ she takes a step nearer to him, “ I — I — " 

'The words refuse to come, and she grasps the back of a 
chair for support. 

“ Papa, won't you read this letter? It's mamma's letter," 
cries Natalie, taking the letter from her father's coat pocket 
and holding it up to him. 

The child is sure that the letter will set things right. John 
Strebelow takes it from her hand, and glances over it to hide 
his feelings. He glances over it, starts with surprise, reads it 
over carefully, then turning to his wife he cries, in a trem- 
bling voice: 

“ Lilian, did your heart dictate this letter?" 

“Yes, John." 

“ Oh, my wife, my wife!" 

He rushes forward to clasp her in his arms, but she waves 
him back with one hand while the other tightly grasps the 
chair, as she says, in a choking voice: 

“ Not for two, but for six long years, John, my heart has 
hungered for your love." 

“ Lilian!" he says, stepping back and looking at her in 
surprise. 

“ Won't you be seated? I have something to say to you be- 
fore you take me back to your heart." 

He seated himself on an ottoman and watched her with 
wondering eyes. 

“ When you married me, John Strebelow, you loved me?" 

“I loved you, Lilian, as Ido to-day, with all my heart, 
with all my strength. My love for you consumes my very 
life," he says, passionately. 

‘ ‘ And when you married me you thought your 1 ove was re- 
turned?" 

‘ ‘ I could have sworn it, or we never would have been mar- 
ried. " 

“ And what, John, do you think was my motive for marry- 
ing you?" 

His lips are compressed, and he clasps his hand. 

“ Judging from what occurred on the night we parted, 1 
have supposed you married me to f)unish Harold Routledge, 
with whom, you told me, you had quarreled." 


22S 


THE BANKEU'S DAUGHTEB. 


“John, you are very wrong, gasps Lilian. “ There was 
no misunderstanding between myself and Routledge when 1 
accepted you. Our quarrel was made up; there was nothing 
but love between us, and I was waiting for him to come to me, 
when my father sent for-.me, said that he was a ruined man, 
and asked me to marry you to save him.'^ 

John Strebelow has been listening in surprise, and, rising to 
his feet now, he cries: 

“ Then, Lilian, your father deceived me. He told me you 
knew nothing of his slight embarrassmept.'^ He clasps his 
brow, as if trying to think, then says, sadly: “ Lilian, I did 
iK>t marry you, I bought you. I sat down to that table yon- 
der, and drew out a thirty-thousand-dollar check — that was 
the price your father asked for you. Oh, Lilian, Lilian, I did 
not expect that of Lawrence Westbrook.^' 

“John,” says Lilian, the tears rolling down her cheeks, 
“ that is not the worst 1 told my father that 1 would marry 
you if you were satisfied with my hand without my heart. 
He promised me, John, that he would tell you that 1 had 
esteem and not love to offer you. Thinking that my father 
kept his promise to me, don^t you remember, John, how often 
before our wedding-day I tried to talk to you on the subject? 
Surely you do not forget how often 1 asked you if you were 
sure you would be satisfied with me; but, instead of encour- 
aging me to talk, you always put your ‘hand over my mouth 
and forbade me finding fault with myself.” 

My God, I remember it all! Oh, Lilian, 3 ^our father de- 
ceived you as well as me! He did not keep his promise to 
you.” 

“ I know it, John; my father confessed it all to me yester- 
day. That is why I made Natalie write that letter* to-day.” 

“ My God! what a misunderstanding to be between husband 
and wife for seven years!’’ exclaims Strebelow, taking a step 
nearer Lilian. 

“ Yes, my husband, a misunderstanding that kept me from 
confessing my love to you. After Natalie was born, 1 knew 
that my love for Harold Eoutledge had been but a girlish in- 
fatuation, and the only true love 1 ever knew was born in my 
heart for my husband; but believing that you married me 
thinking that I did not love you, I was too foolishly proud to 
confess my affection for you unasked. When at last 'you were 
forced, as I thought, by circumstances, to ask me if I still 
loved Harold Routledge, I was too miserable . or too self- 
willed to tell you the truth, and I answered that 1 did not 
know.” 


THE BAIsKER^S DAUGHTER. 220 

Lilian pauses, and stretching her hands toward her hubsand 
once more, says, humbly: 

“ John, can you forgive nie?^^ 

“ Forgive you, my darling wife?’^ and John Strebelow 
clasps her to his heart. “ There is nothing to forgive, Lilian. 
You were deceived, you suffered injury as well as 1; but it is 
all over now. This moment repays me for all the suffering I 
have endured. My darling wife, let us bury the past.'’^ 

Here Natalie, who has quietly slipped out of the room, pokes 
her head in the door unnoticed, and darts away again. J 

“ And you will forgive my father, John? His sin and re- 
morse have made him» twenty years an older man than he is;^^ 
and Lilian raises her tearful eyes to her husband^s face; “ for 
my sake, John, forgive him.^^ 

“I forgive him with all my heart, my darling, for you 
sweet sake, and for his own. Come, darling/' he says, as Lil- 
ian leans heavily against him, “ you are not able to stand. 
Let us sit down here, and tell me something about yourself." 

But they are not allowed to talk together. They are seated 
on an ottoman. John Strebelow has his arms about his wife, 
when Natalie throws open the door, and cries: 

“ See, 1 told you papa and mamma were friends, and 1 
made you read the letter, didn't I, papa?" 

“ Yes, my darling," says Strebelow, smiling, and he keeps 
his arm around his wife, as the bankei* and his late partner, 
Aunt Fanny, Mr. Phipps, and his fiancee enter the room with 
glad, astonished faces. 

Natalie notified the household of the reunion of her father 
and mother. 

“ John, can you forgive me?" cries the banker, in a voice 
of deep emotion. 

‘‘ I have forgiven you, Mr. Westbrook," says Strebelow, 
rising and taking the banker's hand, “ and may there never 
again be cause for any deception between us." 

“ Or any more marketing in human hearts," says Babbage. 
“ God bless you both, Strebelow, and may you never again 
know an unhappy moment;" and the old man gives John 
Strebelow's hand a warm grasp. 

Aunt Fanny takes Lilian in her arms and kisses her, and 
Florence follows her example. 

“Florence, how can I thank you," cries Lilian. “Only 
for the letter you made Natalie write my husband would not 
be here to-day." 

“ Florence, let me thank you," sa 3 "s Strebelow, taking her 
hand. - 


230 THE liANKEll'S DAUGHTER. 

“Oh, don’t talk about it;” and Florence laughs gayly. 
“ Virtue is its own reward. If that letter hadn’t been writ- 
ten, Phipps would have no business that would bring him to 
this house to-day, and— Phipps, tell them what I might have 
missed.” 

“ A handsome husband, perhaps,” says Phipps, laughing. 
And taking Florence’s hand, he continues: “My intended 
wife, ladies and gentlemen, the mother of her country 
Phipps.” 

Every one laughs, even Mr. Babbage, and Florence says 
to him, with a nod of her head toward Phipps: 

“ Mr. Babbage, the cure for niy widowhood that 1 was tell- 
ing you about.” 

“ Well,” says Mr. Babbage, dryly, “ young lady, as you 
have been instrumental in doing so much good, I think 1 ought 
to say: ‘ Bless you, my children; be happy.’ ” 

Florence indeed made Phipps a good wife, and she never re- 
gretted her choice of a husband. 

“ Lilian,” says Strebelow, next day, “ come with me; I 
have something to show you. ” 

He leads her into a room where he has been unpacking his 
baggage. 

“ 1 think 1 have a surprise for you,” he says; and he un- 
covers a picture that stands on an easel. 

Lilian gives a cry of surprise when she sees it. It is the 
picture of herself that Koutledge had on exhibition in Paris. 

“ 1 see you recognize it, Lilian.” 

“ John, where did you get it?” she says in a hushed voice, 
as if she were speaking of something holy. 

“ Poor Koutledge had a presentiment that he was to meet 
his death that night, and after the challenge he drew up his 
will, making Phipps his executor. He willed the picture to 
me.” 

Tears roll down Lilian’s cheeks, and burying her face on 
her husband’s bosom, she says, softly: 

“ 1)0 you prize it, John?” 

“ Prize it, Lilian! My darling wife, money could not buy 
that picture from me.” 

He holds his wife close to his heart, and as they stand be- 
fore Harold Routledge’s work, a ray of sunlight falls upon 
them, as if emblematic of their 'happy future. They have 
suffered much, these two, standing heart to heart now— 

‘ ‘ But tliere is a pleasure which is born of pain : 

The grave of all things hath its violets. ’ ’ 


THE BAHKEK’S daughter. 


23 L 


All miaunderstaiidiiigs are passed. There is a household of 
perfect peace and love. The Banker’s Daughter has indeed 
found happiness, as one can tell by looking at 


“ That peaceful face, wherein all past distress 
Has melted into loveliness.” 


THE END. 


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31 Hamud, the Detective 10c 

32 The Giant Detective in I^rance 

(in two parts) each 10c 

33 The American Detective in 

Russia lOc 

; 34 The Dutch Detective 10c 

35 Old Puritan, the Old-Time Yan- 
kee Detective (1st half) 10c 

35 Old Puritan, the Old-Time Yan- 

kee Detective (2d half) 10c 

36 Manfred’s Quest; or. The Mys- 

tery of a Trunk (1st half). . . lOc 


36 Manfred’s Quest; or. The Mys- 

tery of a Trunk (2d half).... 10c 

37 Tom Thumb; or. The Wonderful 

Boy Detective (1st half) 10c 

37 Tom Thumb; or. The Wonderful 

Boy Detective (2d half).. . i . . 10c 

38 Old Ironsides Abroad (1st half). 10c 

38 Old Ironsides Abroad (2d half). 10c 

39 Little Black Tom ; or. The Ad- 

ventures of a Mischievous 
Darky (Ist half) 10c 

39 Little Black Tom ; or, Jhe Ad- 

ventures of a Mischievous 

Darky (2d half) 10c 

.40 Old Ironsides Among the Cow- 
boys (1st half) 10c 

40 Old Ironsides Among the Cow- 

boys (2d half) 10c 

41 Black Tom in Search of a. Fa- 

ther; or, the Further Advent- 
ures of a Mischievous Darky 
(1st half) *. 10c 

41 Black Tom in Search of a Fa- 

ther ; or, the Further Advent- 
ures of a Mischievous Darky 
(2d half) 10c 

42 Bonanza Bardie; or, the Treas- 

ure of the Rockies (1st half). 10c 

42 Bonanza Bardie: or, the Treas- 

ure of the Rockies (2d half). . 10c 

43 Old Transform, the Secret Spe- 


cial Detective (1st half) 10c 

43 Old Transform, the Secret Spe- 

cial Detective (2d half) 10c 

44 The King of the Shadowers (1st 

half) 10c 

44 The King of the Shadowers (2d 

half) 10c 

45 Gasparoni, the Italian Detect- 

ive; or, Hide-and-Seek in 
New York. ... 10c 

46 Old Sleuth’s Luck 10c 

47 The Irish Detective 10c 

48 Down in a Goal Mine 10c 

49 Faithful Mike, the Irish Hero.. 10c 

50 Silver Tom the Detective; or. 

Link by Link 10c 

51 The Duke of New York 10c 

52 Jack Gameway; or, A Western 

Boy in New York 10c 

53 All Round New York ; or. Tip the 

Tumbler (in two parts).. each 10c 

54 Old Ironsides in New York (in 

two parts) each 10c 

55 Jack Ripple and His Talking 

Dog 10c 

To be issued rtlavcb 189)i: 

56 Billy Joyce, the Government 

Detective 10c 


A handsome catalogue containing complete and classified lists o/aW George 
Munro’s publications xoill he mailed to any address on receipt of 10 cents. 

The above books are for sale by all new.sdealers, or will be sent to any ad- 
dress, postage prepaid, on receipt of 12 cents each. Address 

GEORGE 311) NRO. 3liiiiro’s Publishing Hoiise« 

(P. 0. Box 3751.) 17 to '■27 Vniidewaier Street* New York* 



9lac!t)foIgenbe Sctte finb in tier ®euti(^cu Slbrar^ eijd^icncn: 


1 Der Kaiser, ron Prof. G. Ebers. 20 

2 Die Somosierra, von R. Wald- 

muller JO 

3 Das Geheimniss der alten Marn- 

sell, Roman von E. Marlitt. . . 10 

4 Qiiisisana, von Fr. Spielhagen. 10 

5 Gartenlauben-BIilAen, von E. 

Werner 20 


8 Die Hand der Nemesis, von E. 

A. Kdnif?.- 20 

7 Amtmann’s Magd, von E, Mar- 

litt 20 

8 Vineta, von E. Werner. ........ 20 

9 Auf derRuramingsburg, von M. 

Widdern 10 

10 Das Haus Hillel, von Max Ring 20 

11 GluckaufI von E. Werner 10 

12 Goldelse, von E. Marlitt 20 

13 Vater und Sohn, von F. Lewald 10 

14 Die Wiirger von Pai-is, von C. 

Vacano 20 

15 Der Diamantschleifer, von Ro- 

sentbal-Bonin.. 10 

16 Ingo und Ingraban, von Gustav 

-Frey tag 20 

17 Eine Frage, von Georg Ebers.. 10 
J8 Im Paradiese, von Paul Heyse. 20 
*9 In beiden HemisphSren, von 

Sutro-Schiicking 10 

20 Gelebt und gelitten, von H. 
Wachentiusen 20 


21 Die Eichhofs, von‘M. von Rei- 


chenbach. . . 


10 


22 Kinder der Welt, von P. Heyse. 

Erste Halfte 20 

m Kinder der Weltf von P. Heyse. 
Zweite HBlfte 20 

23 Barfiissele, von B.. Auerbach. . . 10 

24 Das Nest der Zaunkdnige, von 

G. Frey tag... 20 

25 Frllhlingsboten,' von E. Werner 10 

26 Zelle No. 7, von Pierre Zacone. 20 

27 Die junge Frau, von H. Wa- 

chenhuseja 20 

28- Buchenheim, von Th. von Varn- 

biiler 10 

29 Auf der Balm des Verbrechens, 
von E. A. Konig 20 

80 Brigitta, von Berth. Auerbach. 10 

81 Iin Schillingshof, von E. Marlitt 20 

32 Gesprengte Fesseln, von E. Wer- 

ner lb 

33 Der Heiduck, von Hans Wa- 

chenhusen 20 

34 Die Sturmhexe, von Grttfln M. 

Keyserling 10 

85 Das Kind Bajazzo’s, von E. A. 
Kdnig.. 20 


36 Die'Briider vom deutschen 
Hause, von Gustav Frevtag. . 20 

87 Der Wilddieb,vouF. Gerst&cker 10 

88 Die Verlobte, von Rob. Wald- 


mUller 20 

89 Der DoppelgSnger, von L. 
SchUcking 10 


40 Die weisse Frau von Qrelfen- 

stein, von E. Fels 20 

41 Hans und Qrete, von Fr. Spiel- 

hagen 10 

42 Mein Oukel Don Juan, von H. 

Hopfen 20 

48 Markus K6nig, von Gustav 
Freytag 20 

44 Die schdnen Amerikanerinnen, 

von Fr. Spielhagen 10 

45 Das grosse Loos, von A. Konig 20 

46 Zur Ehre Gottes, von Sacher, 

und Ultimo, von F. Spielhagen 10 

47 Die Geschvvister, von Gustav 

Freytag 20 

48 Biscliof und Konig, von Mariam 

Tenger, und Der Piratenkd- 
nig, von M. Jokai 10 

49 ReicbsgrUflu Gisela, von Marlitt 20 

50 Bewegte Zeiten, von Leon Alex- 

androwitsch 10 

51 Um Ehre und Leben, von E. A. 

Konig 20 

52 Aus einer kleinen Stadt, von 

Gustav Freytag 20 

53 Hildegard, von Ernst von Wal- 

dow 10 

54 Dame Orange, von Hans Wa- 

chenhusen 20 

55 Johann isnacht, von M. Schmidt 10 

56 Angela, von Fr. Spielhagen.,.. 20 

57 Falsche Wege, von J. von Brun- 

Baruow 10 

68 Versunkene Welten, von W. 
Jensen 20 


59 Die Wohnungssucher, von A. 

von Winterfeld..., 10 

60 Eine Million, von E. A. Konig.. 20 

61 Das Skelet, von F. Spielhagen, 

und Das Frolenhaus, von Gu- 


stav zu Putlitz 10 

62 Soli und Haben, von G. Freytag. 
Erste Halfte 30 

62 Soil und Haben, von G. Freytag. 

Zvreite Halfte 30 

63 Schloss Griinwald, von Char- 

lotte Fielt 10 


o4 Aivvei Kreuzherren, von Lucian 
Herbert 20 

65 Die Erlebnisse einer Schutzlo- 

sen, von K. Sutro-Schiicking. 10 

66 Das Haideprinzesschen, von E. 

Marlitt 20 

67 Die Geyer-Wally, von Wilh. von 

Hi Hern 10 

68 Idealisten, von A. Reinow 20 

69 Am Altar, von E. Werner 10 

70 Der Kdnig der Luft, von A. von 

Winterfeld 20 

71 Moschko von Parma, von Karl 

E. Franzos 10 

72 Schuld und Stihne, von Ewald 

A. Kdnig 20 

73 In Reih’ und Qlied, von Fr. 

Spielhagen. Erste HUlfte.... 30 




DIE DEUTSCHE LIBH^UY 


•<3 In Reih’ und Glied, von Fr. 

Spielhagen. Zweite H&lfte.. 20 
M Geheimnisse einer kleinen Stadt, 

von A. von Winterfeld 10 

75 Das Landhaus am Rhein, von 
B. Auerbach. Erste HSlfte.. 20 

75 Das Landhaus am Rhein, von 

B. Auerbacli. Zweite HSlfte. 20 

76 Clara Vere, von Friedrich Spiel- 


hagen 10 

77 Die Frau Burgermeisterin, von 

G. Ebers 20 

78 Aus eigener Kraft, von Wilh. v. 

Hilleru 20 

79 Ein Kampf urn’s Recht, von K. 

Frauzos 20 

80 Prinzessin Schnee, von Marie 

Widdern 10 


81 Die zweite Frau, von E. Marlitt 20 

82 Benvenuto, von Fanny Lewald. 10 

83 Pessimisten, von F. von Stengel 20 
^ Die Hofdame der Erzherzogin, 

von F. von Witzleben-Wen- 


delstein 10 

85 Ein Vierteljahrhundert, von B. 

Young 20 

8G Thiii inger Erzahlungen, von E. 
Marlitt 10 

87 Der Erbe von Mortella, von A. 

Dom 20 

88 Vom armen egyptischen Maim, 

von Hans Wacheuhusen 10 

89 Der goldene Schatz aus dem 

dreissigjfi.hrigen Krieg, von E. 

A. Kdnig 20 

90 Das Fraulein von St. ^ 

ranthe, von R. von Gottschall 10 

91 Der Furst von Montenegro, von 

A. V, Winterfeld 20 

92 Um ein Herz, von E Falk 10 

93 Uarda, von Georg Ebers 20 


Fried. Spielhagen, und Ebbe 
und Flutili, von M. Widdern.. 10 
95 Die von Hbhenstein, von Fr. 
Spielhagen. Erste Halfte. .. 20 

95 Die von Hohenstein, von Fr. 

Spielhagen. Zweite Halfte.. 20 

96 Deutsch und Slavisch, von Lu- 


cian Herbert 10 

97 Im Hause des Conimerzien- 

Raths, von Marlitt 20 

98 Helene, von H. Wachenhusen, 

und Die Prinzessin von Portu- 
gal, von A. Meissner 10 

99 Aspasia, von Robert Hammer- 

ling 20 

100 Ekkehard, v. Victor v, Sclieffel. 20 

101 Ein Kampf um Rom, von F. 

Dnhn. Erste HSlfte 20 

101 Ein Kampf um Rom, von F. 

Dahn. Zweite Halfte.. 20 

102 Spinoza, von Berth. Auerbach. 20 
108 Von der Erde zura Mond, von 

J. Verne 10 

104 Der Todesgruss der Legionen, 

von G. Samarow 20 

105 Eeise um den Mond, von Julius 

Verne 10 


Fiirst und Musiker, , von Max 

Ring 2§ 

Nena Sahib, von J. Retcliffe. 

Erster Band 20 

Nena Sahib, von J. Retclifte. 

Zweiter Band 20 

Nena Sahib, vpn J. Retcliffe. 

Dritter Band.. 20 

Reise nach dem Mittelpunkte 

der Erde, von J. Verne 10 

Die silbernfe Hochzeit, von S. 

Kohn 10 

Das Spukehaus, von A. von 

Winterfeld 20 

Die Erben des Wahnsinns. von 

T. Marx It 

Der Ulan, von Joh. van Dewall 10 

Um hohen Preis. von E. Werner 20 
Schwarzwalder Dorfgeschich- 
ten; von B. Auerbach. Erste 

Hklfte 20 

Schwarzwalder Dorfgeschich- 
ten, von B. Auerbach. Zweite 

Halfte M) 

Reise um die Erde, von Julius 

Verne 1 ) 

Casars Ende, von S. J. R., 


Auf Capri, von Carl Detlef. , .. 10 

Severa, von E. Hartner 20 

Ein Arzt der Seele, von Wilh. 

von Hillern 

Die Livergnas, von Hermann 

AVill fried 14 

Zwanzigtausend Meilen uuterm 

Meer, von Jul. Verne 24 

Mutter und Sohn, von A. Godin 10 
Das Haus deg Fabrikauten, von 

G. Samarow 20 

Bruderflicht und Liebe, von L. 

Schiicking 10 

Die Rdmerfahrt der Epigonen, 
von G. Samarow. Erste 

Haifte 20 

Die Rdmerfahrt der Epigonen, 
von G. Samarow. Zweite 

Halfte 20 

Porkeles und Porkelessa, von J. 

Sell err 10 

Ein Friedensstdrer, von Victor 
Bliithgen, und Der lieimliche 

Gast, yon R. Byr 20 

Schdne Frauen, von R. Edmund 

Hahn 10 

Bakchen und Thyrsostrager, 

von A. Niemann 20 

Getreunt, Roman von E. Polko 10 
Alte Ketten, Roman von L. 


Ueber die Wolken, von Wilheim 

Jensen i ) 

Das Gold des Orion, von H. 

Rosenthal-Bonin. . ! 1 ^ 

Um den Halbmond, von Gr. 

Samarow. Erste Hlilfte 20 

Um den Halbmond, von Gr. 

Samarow. Zweite Halfte.. .. 20 
Troubadour - Novellen, von P. 
Hearse lb 


106 

107 

107 

107 

108 

109 

no 

111 

112 

113 

114 

114 

115 

116 

117 

118 

119 

120 

121 

122 

123 

124 

125 

125 

126 

127 

128 

129 

130 

131 

132 

133 

134 

134 

135 


V. 


DIE DEUTSCHE LIBRARY. 


136 Der Schweden-Schatz, von H. 

Wachenhvisen 20 

137 Die Bettlerin vom Pont dee 

Arts und Das Bild des Kaisers, 

von Wilh. Hauff 10 

I'SS Modelle, Hist, Roman, von A..^ 
von Winterfeld ^ 

139 Der Krieg um die Haube, von 

Stefauie Keyser 10 

140 Numa Roumestan, von Al- 

phonse Daudet 20 

141 Spatsommer. Novelle von C. 


von Sydow, und Engelid, No- 
velle von Balduin Mbllhausen 10 

142 Bartolomaus, von Brusehaver, 

und Musma Cussaliu, Novel- 
len von L. Ziemssien 10 

143 Ein gemeuchelter Dichter, Ko- 

mischer Roman von A, von 
Winterfeld. Erste Half te .... 20 

143 Ein gemeuchelter Dichter, Ko- 

mischer Roman von A. von 
Winterfeld. Zweite Halfte. . . 20 

144 Ein Wort, Neuer Roman von G. 

Ebers 20 

145 Novellen, von Paul Heyse 10 

146 Adam Homo in Versen, von 

Paludan-Mtiller 20 

147 Ihr einziger Bruder, von W. 

Heimburg 10 

148 Ophelia, Roman von H. von 

Lankenau 20 

149 Nemesis, von Helene von HUlsen 10 

150 Felicitas, Histor. Roman von F. 

Dahn 10 

151 Die Claudier, Roman vom Ernst 

Eckstein 20 

152 Eine Verlorene, von Leopold' 

Kompert 10 

153 Luginsland, Roman von Otto 

Roquette 20 

154 Im Banne der Musen, von W. 

Heimburg 10 

155 Die Schwester, v. L. SchUcking 10 

156 Die Colonie, von Friedrich Ger- 

stftcker 20 

157 Deutsche Liebe, Roman von M. 

Miiller 10 

158 Die Rose von Delhi, von Fels. 

Erste Halfte 20 

158 Die Rose von Delhi, von Fels. 

Zweite Halfte 20 

159 Debora. Roman von W. Miiller. 10 

160 Eine fllutter, von Friedrich Ger- 

stacker 20 

161 Fried hofsblume, von W. von 

Hillern 10 

162 Nach der ersten Liebe, von K. 

Frenzel 20 

163 Gebannt und erldst, von E. Wer- 

ner 20 

164 Uhlenhans, Roman von Fried. 

Snielhagen 20 

165 Klytia, Roman von G. Taylor. . . 20 

166 Mayo, Erzahlung von P, Lindau 10 

167 Die Herrin, von Ibichstein, von 

F. Henkel 20 

168 Die Saxoborussen, von Gr. Sa- 

marow. Erste HUlfte 20 


168 Die Saxoborussen. von Gr. Sa- 

marow. Zweite HUlfte 20 

169 Serapis, Roman von G, Ebers.. 20 

170 Ein Gottesurtheil, Roman von 

E. Werner 10 

171 Die Kreuzfahrer, Roman von 

Felix Dahn 20 

172 Der Erbe von Weidenhof, von 

F. Pelzeln 20 

173 Die Reise nach dem Schicksal, 

von K. Franzos 10 

174 Villa Schonow, Roman vonW. 

Raabe 10 

175 Das Vermiichtniss, von Ernst 

Eckstein. Erste Halfte 20 

175 Das Vermachtniss, von Ernst 

Eckstein. Zweite HUlfte 20 

176 Herr und Frau Bewer, von P. 

Lindau 1 10 

177 Die Nihilisten, von Job. Scherr. 10 

178 Die Frau mit den Karfunkel- 

steinen, von E. Marlitt 20 

179 Jetta, von George Taylor 20 

180 Die Stieftochter, von J. Smith. 20 

181 An der Heilquelle, von Fried. 

Spielhagen 20 

182 Was der Todtenkopf erzahlt, 

von M. Jokai 20 

183 Der Zigeunerbaron, von M. 

Jokai 10 

184 Himmlische u. irdische Liebe, 

von Paul Heyse 20 

185 Ehre, Roman von O. Schubin.. 20 

186 Violanta, Roman von E. Eck- 

stein 20 

187 Nemi, ErzShlung von II. Wa- 

chenhusen 10 

188 Strandgut, von Joh. von Dewall, 

Erste Halfte 20 

188 Strandgut, von Joh. von Dewall. 

Zweite HUlfte 20 

189 Homo sum, von Georg Ebers. . 20 

190 Eine Aegyptische Konigstoch- 

ter, von Georg Ebers. Erste 
HUlfte 20 


190 Eine Aegyptische Kdnigstoch- 

ter, von Georg Ebers. Zweite 20 
HUlfte 

191 Sanct Michael, von E. Werner. 


Erste HUlfte 20 

191 Sanct Michael, von E. Werner. 

Zweite HUlfte 9# 

192 Die Niibraut, von Georg Ebers. 

Erste HUlfte 20 

192 Die Niibraut, von Georg Ebers. 

Zweite HUlfte 20 

193 Die Andere, von W. Heimburg. 20 

194 Ein armes MUdchen, von W. 

Heimburg 20 

195 Der Roman der Stiftsdame, von 

Paul Heyse 20 

196 Kloster Wendhugen, von W. 

Heimburg 20 

197 Das VermUchtniss Kains, von 

Sacher-Masoch. Erste HUlfte 20 

197 Das VermUchtniss Kains, von 

Sacher-Masoch. Zweite HUIfte 20 

198 Frau Venus, von Karl Frenzel.. 2i» 


DIE DEUTSCHE LTBEAKY. 


■ / 
/ 


199 Eine Viertelsttinde Vater, von 

F. W. Hacklander 10 

200 Heimatklang, yon E. Werner.. 10 

201 Herzenskrisen, von W. Heim- 

burg ^0 

202 Die Schwestern, von Q. Ebera.. 20 

203 Der Egoist, von E. Werner. ; . . 10 

204 Salvatore, von E. Eckstein.... 20 

205 Lunipenmullers Lieschen, von 

W. Heiniburg 20 

206 Das einsame Haus, von Adolf 

Streckfus 20 


207 Die verlorene Handschrift, von 

Q. Frey tag. Erste HSlfte. . . 20 

207 Die verlorene Haudschrift, von 

G. Fi'eytag. Zweite Halfte. . 20 

208 Das Euleuhaus, von E. l\Iai litt 20 

209 Des Herzens Golgatba, von H. 


Wachenhusen 20 

210 Aus dem Leben meiner alten 

Freundin, von W. Ileimbnrg 20 

211 Die Gred, von G. Ebers. Erste 

Halfte 20 

211 Die Gred, von G. Ebers. Zweite 

Halfte 20 

212 Trudchens Heirath, von Wilh, 

Heimburg 20 

213 Asbein, von Ossip Schubin 20 

214 Die Alpenfee, vou E. Werner.. 20 

215 Nero, von K. Eckstein. Erste ' 

Halfte 20 

215 Nero, von E. Eckstein, Zweite 

Halfte 20 

216 Zwei Seelen,.j^on R. Liudau.... 20 

217 Manover- n. Kriegsbilder, von 

Job. von Dewail 10 

218 Lore von Tollen, von W. Heim- 

burg 20 


219 Spitzen, von P. Lindau 20 

^0 Der Refereudar, v^n E. Eck- 
stein / 10 

221 Das Geiger-Evcbeh,von A.Doni 20 
^2 Die GQtterburg, von M. Jokai 20 

223 DerKroiiprinz nbd diedeutscbe 

Kaiserkrone, von G. Freytag 10 

224 Nicbt im Gelrise, von Ida Boy- 

Ed 20 

225 Camilla, von E. Eckstein 20 

228 Josiia, eine Eizaiilung aus bib- 

lischer Zeit, von G. Ebers — 20 

227 Am Belt, von Gregor Samarow 20 

228 Henrik Ibsen's Gesammelte 


Werue. Erster Band 20 

228 Henrik Ibsen’s Ge.sammelte 

Werke. Zweiter Band 20 

228 Henrik Ibsen’s Gesammelte 

Werke. Dritter Band 20 

228 Henrik Ibsen’s Gesammelte 

Werke. Vierter Band 20 


229 In geistiger li re, von H. Kohler 20 
530 Flammenzeicben, v. E. Werner 20 

231 DerSeelsorger, von A’^.Valentin 10 

232 Der Prasident,vonK.E.Franzos 20 

233 Erlacbbof, Roman von Ossib 


8cbubin 20 

234 Ein Mann, von H, Heiberg — 20 

235 Nachz.ehn Jahren, von M. Jokai 20 
^6 Um die Ebre, von Moritz von 

Reichenbach 20 

237 Eine Hof -Intrigue, von C. H. 

von Dedenroth 10 

238 Grafin Ruth, von Emile Erhard 20 

239 Eine unbedeutende Frau, v. W. 

Heimburg 20 

240 Boris . Lensky, von O. Schubin 20 


Ein schoner nusgearbeiteter Catalog, enthaliend eine alpJiabetuche List, 
wird von Geohgk MuNRo/itr 10 cents an alle Adressen verseudet. 

„Die Deutsche Library” ist bei alien Zeitungshfindlern zu haben, Oder 
wird gegen 12 Cents fiir einfacbe Nummern, oder 26 Cents fUr Doppelnum- 
mern nacb irgend einer Adresse portofrei versendet. Bei Bestelluugen durch 
die Post bittet man nacb Nummern zu bestellen. 


P, O. Box 3751. 17 to ‘A7 Vande water Street, New York. 


The Hew York Fashion Bazar Book of the Toilet. 

WITH HANDSOME LITHOGRAPHED COVER. 

PRICE 25 CENTS. 

This is a little book which we can recommend to every lady for the Preserva- 
tion and Increase of Health and Beauty.' It contains full directions for all the 
arts and mysteries of personal decoration, and for increasing the natural 
graces of form and expression. All the little affections of the skin, hair, eyes, 
and body, that detract from appearance and happiness, are made the sub- 
jects of precise and excellent recipes. Ladies are instructed how^ to I'etluce 
their weight without injury to health and without producing pallor and weak- 
ness. Nothing necessary' to a complete toilet book of recipes and valuable 
advice and information has been overlooked in the compilation of this volume. 


For sale hy. all newsdealers, or sent by mail to any address on receipt of 
price, by the publisher. * 


Address OEOlKxE MUNRO, Miinro’s Pnblisliijig House, 

(P. O. Box 3761.) 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


BY MARY STUART SMTH. 
WITH HANDSOME LITHOGRAPHED COVER, 
PRICE 25 CENTS. 


A thoroughly practical book on housekeeping by an experienced and 
celebrated housekeeper. Mrs. Smith is a capable and distinguished writer 
upon all subjects connected witli the kitchen and household. She is one of the 
most popular contributors to 1’hk New York and Paris Young Ladies’ Fash- 
ion Bazar, where the chapters contained in this work first appeared. 


GOOD FORM: 

A BOOK OF EVERY DAY ETIQUETTE. 

BY MRS. ARMSTRONG. 

Price 25 Cents. 

No one aspiring to the manners of a lady or gentleman can afford to be 
without a copy of this invaluable book, which is certain to spare its possessor 
many embarrassments incidental to the novice in forms of etiquette. 


MUMO’S STAE EECITATIONS. 

Compiled and Edited by Mrs. MARY E. BRYAN. 

PRICE 25 CENTS. 


Cutting-Out and Dressmaking. 

From the French of Mile. E. Grand’homme. 

PRICP 25 CENTS. 


The above works are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent by mail on 
receipt of the price. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro*s Publishing House, 

(P. 0. Box 3751.) 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. 

By I.EWIS CABROEE, 

Author of “Through the Looking-Glass,’' 


With Forty-two Beautiful Illustratious by Jofcu Teuuicl. 

Handsomely Bound in Cloth ^ 13mo. Peice 50 Cents. 


Tlroili tlie Lflolii-Glass & Wlial Alice Fmfl Tliere 

By I.EWIS CARROEE. 

ILLUSTRATED BY JOHN TENNIEL. 

Handsomely Bound in Cloth. 13mo. Price 50 Cents. 


Blood is Thicker than Water : 

A FEW DAYS AMONG 

OUR SOUTHERN BRETHREN. 

By Henry H. Field, B.B. 

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Met teoj’s tie® Faillf Cool Boot 

By MISS JULIET CORSON. 

Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price $1.00. 


NEW TABEBNACLE SEEMONS. 

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A SPLENDID DPPORTUNITY 

IS offered to every lover of the beautiful to secure, 
AT AN exceedingly SMALL OUTLAY, THE MAGNIFICENT 
CHROMO ENTITLED 

Friedland, 1807: Napoleon Reviewing his Army. 

This superb chromo, which is an exact reproduction of MEISSONIER’S 
FAMOUS PAINTING, has elicited the warmest praise and admiration of eminent 
art critics throughout the world, preserving all the brilliant coloring, the life- 
like I’eality, the vim, the vigor, and movement of that historical scene as de- 
picted by his matchless brush. This painting was for many years the de- 
light of all the great art salons of Europe, and was finally added to A. T 
Stewart’s magnificent art collection at the enormous outlay of $66,000, being 
presented, after his death, to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New Yoi-k 
City, where it is now on exhibition for all who ma 5 ’^ wish to see it. The 
chance to procure an exact reproduction of this painting in a large-sized chromo, 
suitable for framing, and especially adapted to beautifying every home, is 
offered to all who desire to obtain it. Sent by mail on receipt of 10 cents. 


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Address GEORGE MUNRO, IMunro’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vande water Street, N. Y, 


MUNRO’S FRENCH SERIES. 

No. 1. An Elementary Grammar of the French Language. 

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CATALOGUE 

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POCKET EDITION. 


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for Catalogues, with Imprint, should be sent direct to United States Book Co. 


AUTHORS’ CATAUOOUE. 

\\Vhen ordering by mail please order by numbers.'] 


By E. About. 

1467 A New Lease of Life 20 

By nil’s. Leith Adams. 

1S45 Aunt Hepsy’s Foundling 20 

Works by the author of “Addie’s 
Uusbaud.” 

388 Addie’s Husband ; or, Through 

Clouds to Sunshine 10 

504 My Poor Wife 10 

1046 Jessie 20 

IHnx Adeler’s Works. 

1550 Random Shots 20 

1569 Elbow Room 20 

Works by the author of “A Fatal 
Dower.” 

246 A Fatal Dower 20 

372 Phyllis’ Probation 10 

461 His AVedded AVife 25 

829 The Actor’s AVard , — 20 

1373 The Story of an Error 20 

By the Author of “A Golden 
Bar.” 

483 Betwixt My Love and Me 25 

Works by the author of “ A Great 
Mistake.” 

244 A Great Mistake . . 20 

588 Cherry 10 

1040 Clarissa’s Ordeal. 1st half... 20 

1040 Clarissa’s Ordeal. 2d half 20 

1137 Prince Charming 20 

1187 Suzanne — .• 20 

Works by the author of *‘A 
Woman’s Love-Story.” 

.322 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

677 Griselda *20 


By the Author of “For Mother’s 
Sake.” 

1900 Leonie; or, The Sweet Street 


Singer of New York 20 

By Hamilton Aide. 

383 Introduced to Society 10 

Gustave Aimard’s Works. 

1341 The Trappers of Arkansas 10 

1396 The Adventurers 10 

1398 Pirates of the Prairies 10 

1400 Queen of the Savannah 10 

1401 The Buccaneer Chief 10 

1402 The Smuggler Hero 10 

1404 The Rebel Chief 10 

16.50 The Trail-Hunter 10 

1653 The Pearl of the Andes 10 

1672 The Insurgent Chief — 10 

1688 The Trapper’s Daughter 10 

1690 The Tiger-Slayer. . 10 

1692 Border Rifles 10 

1700 The Flying Horseman 10 

1701 The Freebooters 10 

1714 The White Scalper., i 10 

1723 The Guide of the Desert 10 

173^ Last of the Ancos 10 

1734 Missouri Outlaws 10 

1736 Prairie Flower 10 

1740 Indian Scout 10 

1741 Stronghand 10 

1742 Bee-Hunters 10 

1744 Stoneheart 10 

1748 The Gold-Seekers 10 

1752 Indian Chief 10 

1756 Red Track 10 

1761 The Treasure of Pearls 10 

1768 Red River Half-Breed 10 

By Mary Albert. 

933 A Hidden Terror 20 



Grant Allen’s Works* 

712 For Maimie'3 Sake 20 

1221 “ The Tents of Shein 25 

1783 The Great Taboo 20 

1870 What’s Bred in the Bone 20 

1908 Dumaresq’s Daughter... 25 

Mrs. Alexander’s Works. 

5 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

17 The Wooing O’t.- W 

62 The Executor 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate 10 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow?.^..., 10 

236 Which Shall it Be? ^ 20 

339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid., 10 

490 A Second Life ". ... ... 20 

564 At Bay 10 


797 Look Before You Leap, , , . . . 20 
805 The Freres. 1st half...., 20 

805 The Freres. 2d half., 20 

806 Her Dearest Foe. 1st half.... 20 

806 Her Dearest Foe. 2d half ^ 

814 The Heritage of Langdale 25 

815 Ralph Wilton’s Weird 10 

900 By Woman’s Wit 20 

997 Forging the Fetters, and The 

Australian Aunt 20 

1054 Mona’s Choice. 20 

1057 A Life Interest 20 

1189 A Crooked Patn 20 

1199 A False Scent 10 

1367 Heart Wins 10 

1459 A Woman’s Heart 20 

1571 Blind Fate 20 

1582 An Interesting Case ^ 

Alisun’s Works. 

194 “So Near, and Yet So Far I’’., 10 

278 For Life and Lave 10 

481 The House That Jack Built. . . 10 

By Ilans Cliiistiau Andersen. 

1314 Andersen’s Fairy Tales 20 

fcy W. P. Andrews. 

1172 India and Her Neighbors 20 

F. Anstey’s Works. 

59 Vice Versa 25 

225 The Giant’s Robe 20 

503 The Tinted Venus. A Farcical 

Romance 10 

819 A Fallen Idol... . 20 

16 16 The Black Poodle, .and Othei*^ 
Tales 20 

By G. W. Appleton. 

13«5 A Terrible Legacy 20 

By Annie Arinitt. 

759 In Shallow "Waters 20 

: w T. S. Arthur’s Works. 

" 1,337 Woman’s Trials 20 

I: ' 1636 The Two Wives 20 

1638 Married Life 20 

— 1610 Ways of Providence 20 

1641 Home Scenes 20 


■'7 

1644 Stories for Parents 20 

1649 Seed-Time and Harvest 20 

165S Words for the Wise 20, 

ld54 Stories for Young House- 

keepers 20- 

1657 Lessons In Life 20 

1658 Off-Hand Sketches 20 

Sir Saiiiiiel Baker’s Works. 

267 Rifle and Hound in Ceylon 20 

533 Eight Years Wandering in Cey- 
lon 20 

1502 Cast Up by the Sea 20 

R. M. Ballautyne’s Works. 

89 The Red Eric. 10 

95 The Fire Brigade 10 

96 Erling the Bold 10 

772 Gascoyne, the Sandal-'\Vood 

Trader 25 

1514 Deep Down ^ 

Houore De Balzac’s Works. 

776 PdreGoriot 20 

1128 Cohsin Pons 20 

1318 The Vendetta 20 

S. Bariug-Goiild’s Works. 

787 Coiirt Royal 20 

878 Little Tu’penny 10 

1122 Eve 20 

1201 Mehalah; A Story of the Salt 

Marshes 20 

1697 Red Spider 20 

1711 The Pennyeonaequicks 20 

1763 John Herring 30 

1779 Arminell 30 

1821 Urith 20 

Frank Barrett’s Works. 

986 The Great Hesper 20 

1138 A Recoiling Vengeance 20 

1245 Fettered for Life 25 

1461 Smuggler’s Secret ! 10 

1611 Between Life and Death 20 

1750 Lieutenant Barnabas 20 

1828 Under a Strange Mask 10 

By J. M. Barrie. 

1896 My Lady Nicotine 20 

Basil’s Works. 

344 “The Wearing of the Green ”, 20 

547 A Coquette’s Conquest 25 

585 A Drawn Game 20 


By G. M. Bayne. 
1618 Galaski... 


Anne Beale’s Works. 

188 Idonea on 

199 The Fisher Village 10 

By Alexander Bcgg, 

1605 Wrecks in the Sea of Life. .. . 20 

E. B. Benjamin’s Works. 

1706 Jim, the Parson 20 

1720 Our Roman Palace 1 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


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By A. Benriino. 

1624 Vic 20 

By E. Bei’ffer. 

1646 Clwrles Auchester 20 

By W. Bei'SHol. 

‘*445 Pillone 20 


By E. Berthel. 

The Sergeant’s Legacy 20 

Walter Besaut’s Works. 

97 All in a Garden Fair..' 20 

137 Uncle Jack 10 

140 A Glorious Fortune 10 

146 Love Finds the Way,and Other 
Stories. By Besant and Rice 10 

230 Doi'othy Forster 25 

324 In Luck.at Last 10 

541 Uncle Jack 10 

861 “ Self or Bearer ” 10 

882 Children of Gibeon 20 

904 The Holy Rose 10 

906 The World Went Very Well 

Then 25 

980 To Call Her Mine 25 

1055 Katharine Regina 20 

1065 Herr Paulus: His Rise, His 

Greatness, and His Fall 20 

1143 The Inner House 20 

1151 For Faith and Freedom 20 

1240 The Bell of St. Paul’s 20 

1247 The Lament of Dives 20 

1378 They Were Married. By Wal- 
' ter Besant and James Rice. . . 10 

1413 Armorel of Lyonesse 20 

1402 Let Nothing You Dismay 25 

1.5.30 When the Ship Comes Home. 

By Besant ana Rice 10 

1655 The Demoniac 20 

■5861 St. Katherine’s by the Tower.. 20 

M, Bethain-Ed wards’s Works. 

273 Love and Mirage; or.TheWait- 

. ing on an Island 10 

579 The Flower of Doom, and Other 

Stories..., 10 

594 Doctor Jacob .-. 20 

102.3 Next of Kin— Wanted 20 

1407 The Parting of the Ways 20 

1.500 Disarmed 20 

1.543 For One and the World 20 

1627 A Romance of the Wire 20 

1845 Forestalled; or, The Life Quest. 20 


By Jeauie Gwyniie Bettany. 
1810 A Laggard in Love 20 

Bjorusfjeriie Bjoriisoii’s Works. 

1385 Arne 10 

1.388 The Happy Boy 10 

William Black’s Works. 

1 Yolande 20 

18 Shandon Bells 20 

21 Sunrise : A Story of These 
Times 20 


2.3 A Princess of Thule 20 

39 In Silk Attire -20 

44 Macleod of Dare 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch 20 

50* The Strange Adventures of a 

Phaeton...^.... 20 

70 White Wings: A Yachting Ro- 
mance 10 

78 Madcap Violet 20 

81 A Daughter of Heth 20 

124 Three Feathers 20 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane 20 

126 Kilmeny 20 

138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 25 


205 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love 


Affairs and Other Adventures 20 
472 The Wise Women of Inverness 10 

627 White Heather 20 

898 Romeo and Juliet: A Tale of 

Two Young B’ools 20 

962 Sabina Zembra. 1st half 20 

962 Sabina Zembra. 2d half 20 

1096 The Strange Adventures of a 

House-Boat 20 

11.32 In Far Lochaber 20 

1227 The Penance of John Logan. . 25 
1259 Nanciebel : A Tale of Stratford- 

on-Avon 20 

1208 Prince Fortunatus 20 

1389 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

1394 The Four Macnicols, and Other 

10 

1426 An Adventure.m Thule 10 

1.505 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart. 10 
1506 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M. P.. 10 
17’25 Stand Fast, Craig-Royston ! . . . 20 
1892 Donald Ross of Heimra 20 

R. D. Blackinore’s Works. 

67 Lorna Doone. 1st half 20 

67 Lorna Doone. 2d half 20 

427 The Remarkable History of Sir 
Thomas Upmore, Bart., M. P. 20 

615 Mary Anerley 20 

625 Erema; or. My Father’s Sin.. 20 
_ 629 Cripps, the Cari'ier 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. 1st half 20 

6.30 Cradock Nowell. 2d half 20 

631 Christowell. A Dartmoor Tale 20 

632 Clara Vaughan 20 

6.33 The Maid of Sker. 1st halL.. ^ 

633 The Maid of Sker. half. ... 20 

6:16 Alice Lorraine. 1st half 20 

636 Alice Lorraine. 2d half 20 

926 Springhaven. 1st half 20 

926 Springhaven. 2d half 20 

1267 Kit and Kitty. 1st half 20 

1267 Kit and Kitty. 2d half 20 

By Isa Bingcicn. 

705 The Woman I Loved, and the 
Woman Who Loved Me 10 

By C. Blallierwick. 

151 The Ducie Diamonds 10 

By Frederioic Boylo. 

356 The Good Hater 


4 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


IVIiss M. E. Bvn<l«loii’s Works. 


35 Lady Aud ley’s Secret 20 

5G Phantom Fortune 20 

74 Aurora Floyd 20 

110 Under the Red Flag 10 

153 The Golden Calf 20 

204 Vixen. 20 

211 The Octoroon 10 

234 Barbara ; or, Splendid Misery. 20 
263 An Ishmaelite 20 


315 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 
mas, 1884. Edited by Miss M. 


E. Braddon 20 

434 Wyllard’s Weird 20 

478 Diavola ; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. Part 1 20 

478 Diavola; or, Nobody ’s Daugh- 

ter. Part II 20 

480 ]\Iarried in Haste. Edited by 
Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

487 Put to the Test. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

488 .Toshua Haggard’s Daughter..: 20 

489 Rupert Godwin 20 

495 Mount Royal 20 

496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

497 The Lady’s Mile 25 

498 Only a Clod 20- 

499 The Cloven Foot 20 

511 A Strange World 20 

515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant. . 1 20 

524 Strangers and Pilgrims.. 30 

529 The Doctor’s Wife 20 

542 Fenton’s Quest 20 

544 Cut by the County; or, Grace 

Darnel 10 

548 A Fatal Marriage, and The 

Shadow in the Corner 10 

549 Dudley Carleon; or. The Broth- 

er’s Secret, and Cleorge Caul- 
field’s Journey 10 

5.52 Hostages to Fortune 20 

553 Birds of Prey. 20 

.554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. (Se- 
quel to “ Birds of Prey ”) 20 

.5.57 To the Bitter End 20 

.559 Taken at the Flood 20 


.561 Just as I am ; or. A Living Lie 20 
567 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 


570 John IMarchmont’s Legacy 30 

618 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 
mas, 1885. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

840 One Thing Needful; or. The 

Penalty of Fate 25 

881 Mohawks. 1st half 20 

881 Mohawks. 2d half 20 

890 The Mistletoe Bough, dirist- 
raas, 1886. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

943 Weavers and Weft; or, “ Love 

that Hath Us in His Net ” 20 

947 Publicans and Sinners; or, 

Lucius Davoren. 1st half 20 

947 Publicans and Sinners; or, 

Lucius Davoren. 2d half 20 

1036 Like and Unlike 20 


1098 The Fatal Three < 20 

1211 The Day Will Come 20 

1411 Whose Was the Hand? -25 

1664 Dead Sea Fruit 20 

1893 The World, Flesh and the Devil. 20 

By Annie Bradslian'. 

706 A Crimson Stain 10 


Woi'ks by Cliarlotte M. Braeine, 
Author of “Bora Thorne.’’ 


19 Her Mother’s Sin 20 

51 Dora Thorne 25 

54 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

68 A Queen Amongst Worhen 10 

69 Madolin’s Lover 25 

75 Redeemed by Love; or, Love’s 

Victory 20 

76 Wife in Name Only; or, A 

Broken Heart 20 

79 Wedded and Parted 10 

92 Lord Lynne’s Choice 20 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. 20 

190 Romance of a Black Veil 10 

220 Which Loved Him Best? 25 

237 Repented at Leisure. (Large 
type edition) 20 


249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter;” 

or. The Cost of Her Love. ... 20 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

ana’s Discipline 20 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fail 

but False 10 

283 The Sin of a Lifetime; or, Viv-' 
ien’s Atonement 20 

287 At War With Herself 10 

923 At War With Herself. (Large 

type edition) 20 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. 

From Out the Gloom 10 

955 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. 
From Out the Gloom. (Large 
type edition) T . . 25 

291 Love’s Warfare 20 

292 A Golden Heart 20 

293 The Shadow of a Sin 10 

948 The Shadow of a Sin. (Large 

type edition) 20 


294 The False Vow; or, Hilda; or, 

Lady Hutton’s Ward 10 

928 The False Vow; or, Hilda; or, 
Lad}’^ Hutton’s-Ward. (Large 

type edition) 25 

294 Lady Hutton’s Ward ; or, Hilda; 


or, 'I'he False Vow 10 

928 Lacly Hutton’s Ward ; or, Hilda; 
or, The False Vow. (Large 

type edition^ 20 

294 Hilda; or. The False Vow; or. 

Lady Hxitton’s Ward 10 

928 Hilda; or. The False Vow; or. 
Lady Htitton’s Ward. (Large 

type edition) 20 

S95 A Woman’s War ’. 10 

952 A Woman’s War. (Large type 

edition) 20 

296 A Rose in Thorns 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


o 


397 Hilary’s Folly; cr, Her Mar- 
riage Vow 25 

953 Hilary’s Folly; or, Her Mar- 
riage Vow. (Large type edi- 
tion) 25 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

from the Sea 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love 10 

303 Ingledew House, and More Bit- 

ter than Death 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady G wen- 

doline’s Dream 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for 

a Day 10 

307 Two Kisses, and Like no Other 

Love 10 

308 Beyond Pardon 20 

322 A Woman's Love-Story 20 

323 A Willful Maid 20 

411 A Bitter Atonement 20 

433 My Sister Kate 10 

459 A Woman’s Temptation. 

(Large type edition) 20 

951 A Woman’s Temptation 10 

460 Under a Shadow' 20 

465 The Earl’s Atonement 20 

466 Between Two Loves 20 

467 A Struggle for a Ring 20 

469 Lady Darner’s Secret 20 

470 Evelyn’s Folly 20 

471 Thrown on the World 20 

476 Between Two Sins; or. Married 

in Haste 10 

516 Put Asunder; or. Lady Castle- 

maine’s Divorce 20 

576 Her Martyrdom 20 

626 A Fair Mystery; or. The Perils 

of Beauty 20 

741 The Heiress of Hilldrop; or. 
The Romance of a Young Girl 20 
745 For Another’s Sin ; or, A Strug- 
gle for Love 25 

792 Set in Diamonds 25 

821 The World Between Them 25 

822 A Passion Flow'er 20 

853 A True Magdalen 20 

854 A Woman’s Ex’ror 20 

922 Marjorie 20 

924 ’Tw'ixt Smile and Tear 20 

927 Sweet Cyrabeline 20 

929 The Belle of Lynn; or. The 

Miller’s Daughter 20 

331 Lady Diana’s Pride 20 

949 Claribel’s Love Story ; or, Love’s 

Hidden Depths 20 

958 A Haunted Lite ; or, Her Terri- 
ble Sin - • 20 

969 The Mystery of Colde Fell; or, 

Not Proven 20 

973 The Squire’s Darling 25 

975 A Dark Marriage Morn. 20 

978 Her Second Love 20 

982 The Duke’s Secret 20 

965 On Her Wedding Morn, and 
The Mystery of the Holly-Tree 20 
988 The Shattered Idol, and Letty 
Leigh 20 


990 The Earl’s Error, and Arnold’s 

Promise 20 

995 An Unnatural Bondage, and 

That Beautiful Ijady 20 

1006 His Wife’s Judgment 20 

1008 A Thorn in Her Heart 20 

1010 Golden Gates 20 

1012 A Namele.«s Sin 20 

1014 A Mad Love 20 

1031 Irene’s Vo w' 20 

1052 Signa’s Sw'eetheart 20 

1091 A Modern (Cinderella 10 

1134 Lord Elesmere's Wife 25 

1155 Lured Away; or. The Story of 
a Wedding - Ring, and The 

Heiress of Arne 20 

1179 Beauty’s Marriage 10 

1185 A Fiery Ordeal 20 

1195 Dumaresq’s Temptation 20 


1291 The Star of Love 20 

1328 Lord Lisle’s Daughter 10 

1415 Weaker than a Woman 20 

1628 Love Works Wonders 20 

By Fredrika Bremer. 

187 The Midnight Sun 10 

Charlotte Bronte’s Works. 

15 Jane Eyre 20 

57 Shirley 20 

944 The Professor ' 20 

IMioda Broughton’s Works. 

86 Belinda 20 

101 Second Thoughts 20 

227 Nancy 20 

645 Mrs. Smith of Longmains 10 

758 “Good-bye, Sweetheart!” 20 

765 Not Wisely, But Too Well 20 

767 Joan 20 

768 Red as a Rose is She 20 

769 Cometh Up as a Flow'er 20 

862 Betty’s Visions 10 

894 Doctor Cupid 20 

1599 Alas! 20 

By Loiifse de JUruneval. 

1686 Soeur Louise 20 

Robert Biichauaii’s Works. 

145 “ Storm-Beaten God and The 

Man 20 

1.54 Annan Water 20 

181 The New Abelard. 10 

268 The Martyrdom of Madeline.. 25 
398 IMatt : A Tale of a Caravan ... 10 
468 The Shadow of the Sword 25 

646 The Master of the Mine 20 

892 That Winter Night; or, Love's 

Victory 10 

1074 Stormy Waters 20 

1104 The Heir of Linne 20 

1350 Love Me Forever 10 

1455 The Moment After 20 

By John Bunyan. 

1498 The Pilgrim’s Progress 20 


6 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


Captain Fred Burnaby’s Works. 

380 “ Our Radicals ” 25 

3T5 A Ride to Khiva 20 

384 On Horseback Thi ough Asia 
Minor 20 

By John BIoinidelle-Burton. 

913 The Silent Shore; or. The Mys- 
tery of St. James’ Park...... 20 

By Beatrice M. Butt. 

1354 Delicia 20 

By the Antlior of “By Crooked 

raths.” 

430 A Bitter Reckoning 10 

E. Lasseter Bynner’s Works. 

14.56 Nimport 80 

1460 Tritons 30 

By Liord Byron. 

719 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage... 10 

E. Fairfax Byrrne’s Works. 

521 Entangled 20 

538 A Fair Country Maid 20 

By Mrs. Caddy. 

127 Adrian Bright^ 20 

Hall Caine’s Works. 

445 The Shadow of a Crime 20 

.520 She’s All the World to Me 10 

1234 The Deemster 20 

1255 The Bondman 20 

By Mona Caird. 

1699 The Wing of Azrael 20 

By Ada Cambridge. 

1583 A Marked Man 20 

Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron’s Works. 

.595 A North Country Maid 20 

796 Tn a Grass Country 20 

891 VeraNevill; or, Poor Wisdom’s 

Chance 20 

912 Pure Gold 20 

963 Worth Winning 20 

1025 Daisy’s Dilemma 20 

1028 A Devout Lover ; or, A Wasted 

Love 20 

lOI'O A Life’s Mistake 20 

1204 The Lodge by the Sea 20 

1205 A Lost Wife 20 

12-36 Her Father’s Daughter 20 

1261 Wild George’s Daughter 20 

1290 The Cost of a Lie 20 

1292 Bosky Dell — 20 

1549 The Cruise of the Black Prince 25 

1782 A Dead Past , 20 

1819 Neck or Nothing 10 

By Lady Colin Campbell. 

1325 Darell Blake 20 

Rosa Nouclietre Carey’s Works. 

315 Not Like Other Girls ! 20 

396 Robert Or(J’8 Atonement 25 


551 Barl)ara Heathcote’s Trial. 1st 


half 20 

551 Barbara Heathcote's Trial. 2d 

half 20 

608 For Lilia.s. 1st half 20 

608 For Lilians. 2d half 20 

9-30 Uncle Max. 1st half 

930 Uncle Max. 2d half 20 

932 Queenie’s Whim. 1st half 20 

932 Queenie’s Whim. 2d half ^ 


934 Wooed and Married. 1st half. 20 
9.34 Wooed and Married. 2d half. 20 
936 Nellie’s Memories. Istlialf... 20 
9.36 Nellie’s Memories. 2d half... 20 


961 Wee Wifie 20 

1033 Esther: A Story for Girls 20 

1064 Only the Governess 25 

11.35 Aunt Diana 20 

1194 The Search for Basil Lyndhurst 30 

1208 Merle’s Crusade 20 

1545 Lover or Friend? 30 

1879 Mary St. John 20 

« 

William Cavleton’s Works. 

1493 Willy Reilly 20 

1552 Shane Fadh’s Wedding 10 

1553 Larry McFarland’s Wake 10 

1554 The Party Fight and Funeral. 10 

1.556 The Midnight Mass lO 

15.57 Phil Purcel 10 

15.58 An Irish Oath 10 

1.560 Going to Maynooth 10 

1561 Phelim O’Toole's Courtship. . . to 
1502 Dominick, the Poor Scholar. . 10 
1564 Neal Malone lo 

By Alice Comyus Carr. 

571 Paul Crew’s Story...... 10 

Lewis Carroll’s Works. 

462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 
land. Illustrated by John 

Tenniel 20 

789 Through the Looking-Glass, 
and What Alice Found There. 
Illustrated by John Tenniel.. 20 


By Cervantes. 

15V6 Don Quixote. 30 

By L. W. Chnmpucy. 

1468 Bourbon Lili^ • 20 

By Erckmann-Chutriun. 

329 The Polish Jew. (Translated 
from the French by Caroline 
A. Merighi.) lo 

By Victor Clierbuliez, 

1516 Samuel Brohl & Co 20 

By Mrs. C. M. ClnrUe. 

1801 More True than Truthful 2* 

By W. IH. Clemens. 

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